


What Didn't Happen

by themayqueen



Series: What Didn't Happen [1]
Category: Hanson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Boys Kissing, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Brother/Brother Incest, Car Accidents, Character Death, Coma, Divorce, Doctor Who References, F/M, Flashbacks, Frottage, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marriage, Memory Loss, Pregnancy, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, The Walk Era, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, Underneath Era, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themayqueen/pseuds/themayqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Zac is a newlywed. The next day, he wakes up to find himself a year in the future with his entire life collapsing around him. His wife has left him and his brother Taylor--both his best friend and secret lover--is inexplicably dead. But things don't quite add up. Can he figure out how things went wrong and get his life back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Normal

_June 3, 2006_

Isaac adjusts his tie for what might be the three hundredth time.

"Are you ready for this? Are you sure about it?"

"Yes," I reply to every question. At some point I don't even bother listening to all his questions anymore. My voice does this annoying little tremble every time I repeat that one word–- _yes_.

I think the only person who hears that little catch in my voice or sees the way I'm shivering even though it isn't cold is Taylor. I'm stubbornly refusing to look at him and I can tell that Taylor is trying everything he can to distract himself from looking at me, too. He fiddles with his own suit, adjusts the ring on the pillow Ezra will waddle down the aisle with–-anything to keep from looking in my face.

I remember how it felt, just three years ago, at Taylor's wedding. I was just a bystander then, the awkward teenager in the background, getting in everyone's way. That day was not about me like this one is. That day was the ending of just as many things as it was a beginning.

If there are any doors left to close, I'm slamming them shut. I wish it didn't have to be that way.

"Do you need a glass of water or something? You look like you're gonna pass out. I think Ash has a flask somewhere that he was gonna..." Isaac trails off and wanders away before I can answer. 

He is gone out the door in seconds, leaving me alone with Taylor who still staunchly refuses to make eye contact. The rest of the groomsmen are either running late or off on some errand Isaac has assigned to them. I'm glad to have Isaac taking care of all the details that I don't want to fool with. Choosing him as best man instead of Taylor took most of our friends and family by surprise, but it had to be that way. It just had to. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

But I'm pretty sure that isn't why Taylor is so quiet and upset. At least, it isn't the entire reason.

"Taylor."

He doesn't turn around, just continues to pick at some invisible flaw in Mac's tuxedo shirt. 

"Taylor."

A tiny, almost imperceptible flinch, then nothing. He turns from the tux and sorts their boutonnieres again. He's stacked and restacked them at least ten times. I counted. I can't help but watch everything Taylor does. It's a bad habit that I've had for as long as I can remember and Taylor knows it, too. Usually he'd turn and smirk because he's caught me at it, but not today. 

I just can't wait any longer. I step toward Taylor, my sock covered feet quiet against the carpet. I'm standing only inches behind Taylor. I slip my arms around his waist and leans against him. It's a comfortable position and one we've been in many times before, but today it feels stiff and unnatural. I can sense how Taylor wants to pull away but I know he won't.

"Please say something to me."

"What am I supposed to say? What's left to be said at this point, Zac?"

His voice is hard and cold and I want to back away from him but I don't. I stand my ground.

"Just speak to me, please. Don't give me this silent treatment crap."

Taylor wiggles his way out of my grip just enough to turn and face me. "Like you did on my wedding day?"

"That was different."

"I guess it was."

I frown. "You _know_ it was. I was a damn teenager then. Excuse me for not enjoying my brother's shotgun wedding."

"I was a damn teenager too!" Taylor hisses. "Like you're so much older and wiser anyway. You're twenty, Zac. Twenty fucking years old. But please tell me how much smarter you are than I was."

"Forget it," I whisper and loosen my grip on Taylor's waist. I back away with my eyes to the floor, not wanting to see the fire and ice in Taylor's. I know he's right, but I don't want to admit it.

"Just don't tell me that you're so much smarter than me, okay? We've both made a stupid decision, only you haven't realized yours yet. But you will."

Taylor's voice is barely above a whisper and I'm not even sure I've heard him right. I want to ask what that's supposed to mean but before I can, the door flies open and in walks Isaac with two bottles of water in one hand and two beers in the other. 

"You still holding yourself together?" he asks, then holds his hands out in front of me. "Your choice."

I wrap my hand around a beer and yank it out of Ike's hand. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Taylor rushes over and grabs the other beer. The tension between us is so obvious and palpable that even Isaac takes a step back. He looks down at his empty hand, then at the one clutching the water bottles, and frowns. He turns on his heel and hurries back out of the room, cursing under his breath. It's the first time he's broken character all day after playing the role of best man so perfectly.

Does he know? I've asked myself that question a million times. He's played innocent for so long that I started to believe it wasn't an act. Maybe Isaac does know and he's just pushed it deep down inside, like I've had to do. 

I'm so goddamn tired of hiding, but after today, it's all I'm going to do. All I can do. I'm not sure what I even mean to accomplish by talking to Taylor about it now. We're too far gone to fix any of it and I knows that. I've hidden my feelings and lived a lie for the past three years and now I've got to make that lie my life. It's the only path to something remotely normal that I can find.

It's not like Taylor wanted the life we had anyway. That's how I rationalize it all to myself and it's worked until now, until I had to stand here and watch Taylor pout and grumble about everything. I don't think I can call Taylor my friend now and I don't understand how it all could have gone so wrong when I was trying to make it right.

I open my mouth to speak to Taylor again, but no words come out. It's just as well, because Taylor's turned his back again, and I know he wouldn't answer. The only sound in the room is the popping of the caps on our beers, followed by the near silence as we drink to avoid speaking.

I briefly wonder how much persuasion it would take for Isaac to give me another beer. Maybe I could figure out exactly where he's stashed them away and just steal one. Then I imagine the look on Kate's face if I were to wobble and sway drunkenly on the altar and slur the words to our marriage vows. It's enough to make me giggle, and I'm so tempted to do it, but I know I would never live that down. The marriage would be over before it began. I stuff the quickly emptied beer bottle into a garbage can and decide I better finish getting ready while I still have time.

The awkward silence is soon broken when the rest of my groomsmen descend on the room in a flurry. Mac comes in first, flinging the door wide open and singing some punk song I can't quite place at the top of his lungs. He's followed by our dad, already wearing his suit; I'm pretty sure he's recycled the same one he wore for Taylor's wedding. Dad always has been a cheapskate, and that didn't change when we started making the money for him.

I feel like I might as well be a mannequin in a shop window as they all surround me and tug and pull on my sleeves and cufflinks and all the other trappings of this itchy costume I've been forced to wear. I know it's funny to think of myself as being forced; I made this decision myself, but it doesn't really feel like it. I look over at Taylor, leaning against a wall and staring at his shoes, and can only imagine how _forced_ he must have felt when it was his turn to do what I'm doing mostly willingly.

It all goes by too quickly and before I know it, Isaac and Dad are shoving me out of the door of the room we've been holed away in. I can walk on my own just fine, but I know that if given the choice, my feet would carry me far away from the altar where I'm supposed to stand. So I let myself be guided, pushed and prodded across the building until we reach our destination. The room where everything is going to change.

But that's not quite right. It already changed. Four years ago it changed and it can never be the same again. So this is fine. This is what has to happen and it isn't that big of a change, really.

I keep telling myself that, but it does little to calm my nerves. 

The room is covered in pale blue flowers and ribbons-–my favorite color but not my favorite shade. It was the one thing I felt I got any say in once all the planning got under way. The one thing Kate and I could agree on. The color blue. It wasn't like everything else was an argument, but I knew it was about her, not me. And that was fine. If I could blend far enough into the background that everyone forgot I was even there, I would be just fine with that.

I've drifted away completely in my mind by the time Kate finally makes her way down the aisle. If anyone asks later, I'm certain I won't be able to describe her gown at all. It's white and shimmery and she looks just as beautiful as she ever has. I can't seem to muster up any stronger emotions than that and the guilt at that realization overtakes any happiness I might have felt.

Kate smiles at me as we recite our vows but I can see the worry in her eyes. The nervousness written across her face isn't because she's afraid of forgetting the vows or dropping my ring or tripping on the hem of her gown. It's because she's afraid I'm going to run. I've considered it. I've certainly had my chances to do it but I know that standing my ground and going through with this is the right thing to do. 

I have to make things right, have to make things _normal_.

That's my mantra for the day and it replays through my mind all through the ceremony. It keeps me going, keeps me standing upright and trying my best to smile and look like I lover her. It's not that I don't love her, it's just that that love has never really _moved_ me. Loving her is a choice. If I wanted to stop, I think I probably could, unlike... 

Taylor slips out of the lobby as soon as the ceremony is over and I knows he's gone outside to sulk and probably smoke half a pack of cigarettes. There's no point trying to track him down because that would cause even more of a scene. So I'll just let him go and maybe he'll burn off enough steam to stop causing scenes. Someone is bound to notice, eventually. Isaac already has. It's only a matter of time before someone else, god forbid it be Kate, catches on to the tension between the two of us, the two who are supposed to be best friends.

 _Supposed_ to be.

It never quite works out like it's supposed to, though. That's something we two know all to well.

The reception isn't awkward like Taylor's. I wish I could stop comparing the two weddings but it's the only frame of reference I've got for this sort of event. It's still awkward, though, but in a different way. Isaac gives a long rambling speech and so does our dad. Taylor keeps shrugging it off when people turn to him but finally he stands and looks out awkwardly out the crowd.

At first, I'm pretty sure he's going to run. I cross my fingers under the table and pray that Taylor stays in place. He clears his throat three times, then take a long swig of his champagne before he finally begins.

"I guess in some ways we always thought Zac would be the first of us to get married. It didn't quite work out that way, but that's alright. Things work out the way they are meant to, I suppose. Zac has always been mature for his age. It's sometimes hard for me to remember that I'm _his_ older brother and not the other way around. Maybe that's just because I'm a dumb blonde. But I think it's because of how mature he is. When he makes his mind up to do something, you know it isn't a rash decision. You know he's thought it through and made the... best choice he can. I think we can all agree he's done that today. Kate and Zac are going to have a great life together. They're both lucky to have each other, and they don't need me or anyone else to tell them that. I don't really know how else to describe it. So I'm gonna stop before I start rambling, and I think you'll all thank me for that."

I can't even count how many lies he managed to cram into that speech. I could hear all the catches and hitches in his voice as he struggled to force out words he didn't really believe. I hope no one else in the room notices all of that but there's not much chance that it slipped by everyone. Surely someone is wondering why Taylor would give such a weird speech, and maybe beginning to put the pieces together. Everyone seems to see how on edge we are, even though they couldn't possibly know why.

Kate barely talks to me during the reception and I'm really sort of okay with that. There are too many friends and family members coming over and wishing us well that there just isn't time for the two of us to have much of a conversation. I wouldn't really know what to say to her anyway so it's just easier that I don't have to speak much.

The reception flies by and soon I find himself back at our hotel. We've rented the honeymoon suite in what is probably the fanciest hotel in all of Atlanta, because, why not? I never feels like my words or actions are enough, but if I can throw some money around to prove my feelings, I feel like I've done something right. That's what the entire day has been about, I guess.

I carry Kate over the threshold of the room because that's what I'm supposed to do. She furrows her brow and frets that I'm going to drop her. I know I won't, and I don't.

"We're married," Kate says like it's some big revelation, some miracle we've worked so hard to accomplish together. Maybe it is.

I follow her to the bed and we fall into it wordlessly. Kate wiggles out of her dress and leaves it laying in a pile on the floor, discarded, a shimmering white puddle. She curls up against my side and I press my lips to her neck gently. My hands explore parts of her body that I've only barely seen before. For all the things I've done with Taylor, I've barely let myself get close to Kate like that. It's something we sort of unconsciously decided together, although I know her reasons were different than mine.

Our bodies connect under the sheets and my mind is everywhere but on the task at hand. All I can think about is how these are probably the most expensive sheets I've ever touched. I almost laugh out loud when I wonder if the hotel will have to throw the sheets out when we're done. I try to focus on her, I really do. But my mind still wanders. It isn't the great change I was hoping for, but how could it be? I've wished for this night to change everything, fix everything, but it hasn't. 

Afterward, I lay on my back and listen as Kate's breathing slows down. Maybe things will still be okay. Gradually, over time, I'll come to see that I've made the right choice. I'm certain I will. In the morning, things will look better.

In the morning, I will wake up a married man for the first time. In the morning, everything will be okay.


	2. The Next Morning

_August 10, 2007_

It is a well known fact that I am not a morning person. No, that's a gross understatement. I hate mornings with a burning passion. Burning is a very appropriate word, in fact, because the first thing I see when I wake up on this particular morning is the sun coming right through the curtains and blinding me. I growl at it, like that's going to make a difference, and pull the pillow up over my head.

That's when I realize I'm alone in bed. If Kate was with me, she would have stirred by now. She can't stand the way that I wiggle around when I can't get comfortable. Slowly, I peel the pillow off of my face and glance around.

No Kate.

But that's not what scares me the most.

I'm not in the hotel suite at all. I'm lying in bed in my brand new house, the one Kate and I bought, but haven't moved into yet. But the room is furnished and it definitely looks lived in. I shoot up out and of the bed and look around. No sign of Kate at all, but every sign that I've been living here for quite some time; my dirty clothes and shoes litter the floor all around the big bed that I seem to be sharing with no one.

My head is spinning. I've got to find something, anything, in this room to explain what happened. Was the entire wedding a dream? No, that doesn't explain it. Where has my _life_ gone? Where is my wife, if she even is that at all? And why don't I remember moving into this house?

I see my billfold laying on the dresser and I stumble over to it. My driver's license is in place. Yup, I'm still Zac Hanson. At least that hasn't changed overnight. Everything else seems to be in order. My cell phone is right there, so I check it next, just to see the time and date.

_August 10, 2007._

2007\. That's an entire year of my life, gone. Now my entire body is spinning from the inside out. I lean against the dresser just to brace myself until it doesn't feel like I'm going to pass out. When I went to bed, I was in a hotel suite and it was June 3, 2006. I'm absolutely certain that was real and true. But now, it's August 10, 2007. Over a year later and I'm sleeping alone in a king sized bed in the house I'm supposed to sharing with my wife. And I have no memory at all of how I got here.

Not even the phrase "one hell of a hangover" can explain this.

I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I find Kate – it strikes me as odd that she isn't listed among the recent calls, but that seems like my least concern right now-–and press “call.” I tap my feet impatiently while I wait for her to answer, if she does.

"Hello, you've reached Kate Tucker. Please leave a message at the beep and I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Sigh.

"Katie, this is Zac. Please call me back. I don't... I don't know what happened, but I just need you to call me back."

I can't imagine how I would reply if I got that kind of vague, confused voicemail. But what else could I say? I've got to figure this out. Maybe my memory will come back after I really wake up all the way. I stumble into the first pair of jeans I can find and I decide to take a look around what evidently isn't my brand new house.

One look in the bathroom assures me that Kate is definitely not living here; there's no makeup, no girly shampoos, nothing at all to hint at a female presence in the house. With this revelation, I continue on to the kitchen, where I discover a giant stack of dishes in the sink. Typical. Of course I've let this place become a pigsty. What else would I expect from myself?

At least the bread looks vaguely fresh. I pop a few slices in the toaster and sit down at the kitchen table to contemplate my situation.

It can't be a hangover. It just can't be. Maybe it's amnesia. But what sort of doctor would let an amnesia patient, with an entire year missing, just wander around unattended? So, I haven't been to a hospital. The amnesia is a new condition-–maybe it even happened the night before. The _actual_ night before, not the wedding night that I remember. What could I have done to myself to knock an entire year out of my brain, then climb into bed like nothing at all was wrong?

No, that doesn't make sense either. 

All things considered, I've only got two possibilities at hand. Either one makes my nerdy, science fiction loving brain happier than they should, even though I know, logically, both are impossible.

The first is that I'm in an alternate universe. Maybe Kate and I aren't married at all in this one. But it all seems similar enough to my real world, at least so far. So I'm not inclined to accept this theory. Which leaves me with the second one...

I've traveled through time. But _how_? And _why_? And what, exactly, have I done in the past year to end up all alone in this big old house?

Whatever happened to bring me here, I figure my best course of action is just to go through my day as though nothing at all is wrong. Eventually, I'll figure out what I've missed, even if I don't ever remember any of it. Then I can get things back to normal. Maybe I'll even get Kate back, since she was my last shot at anything really normal.

With these thoughts in mind, I butter my toast and shove it all in my mouth in just a few bites. I feel rejuvenated now. Energized. I shower quickly and dress myself in the cleanest clothes I can find, which really aren't that clean at all. But this isn't a time to be concerned with things like hygiene. After my shower, I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself. I haven't had a haircut in the past year, it seems. I can almost get my hair back in a ponytail now, instead of that short business Kate insisted on for the wedding. I'd been clean shaven for the wedding too, just as she'd insisted, but now my chin is sporting some pretty impressive stubble.

If I really am a bachelor now, in this fast forward future or alternate universe, at least I look the part.

Once I'm done being narcissistic in the mirror, I walk to the garage and hop into my car. It's funny how I easily fall into a normal routine and seem to know my way around the house, but I don't feel like dwelling on that. There's not much to make of it, really. It isn't like I've never been in the house before. I might not have that many memories of it, but at least I have a few. One memory I know I haven't lost is the drive to our office. 

It's still early in the morning, so I'm not surprised that neither Isaac nor Taylor has bothered to show up at the office yet; none of us are morning people under normal circumstances. My key slides easily into the door, and I instinctively remember where the light switch is. 

Everything is normal, so far. Until I look around.

The room is covered in dust and paperwork is laying haphazardly all around. It doesn't look like anyone has been in the office for quite some time. It doesn't make sense at all. I keep walking through the rooms, flipping on the lights and finding more of the same. It's obvious that, for some reason, we're no longer using this office. I pick up the phone on the corner of my desk and it doesn't even have a dial tone. Disconnected.

I fish my cell phone out of my pocket and scroll down to Taylor's name and number. Taylor will know what's wrong. Taylor will be able to explain everything to me and make everything all right.

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is not currently in use. Please hang up and try your call again."

That's weird. I know the number is programmed correctly into my phone, so it's not even possible that I've dialed the wrong digits. I press redial and listen as the same message is replayed again. Now I'm really starting to wonder how much I've missed in the past year and why Taylor has changed his number without even letting his own damn brother know.

I call Taylor's home number next, not caring if I wake up the entire household. I'm sure Taylor is still in bed, but if I whine enough, Natalie will wake up him for me. The phone rings and rings until I start to think no one is going to answer. Finally, I hear the click of a phone being picked up and the static before anyone speaks.

"Hello?" Natalie's voice.

"Nat? It's Zac."

Silence. Very, very awkward silence.

"What do you want?" Her tone is terse and clipped, and it's obvious she's biting back whatever words she really wants to say to me. 

"Is Taylor there?" 

More silence.

"Are you drunk, Zac? Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?" 

Okay, I know it's early, but that's just ridiculous. "What-–what are you talking about, Natalie? I just wanna talk to Taylor. Can you please wake him up for me?"

"No, I can't wake him up for you," Natalie replies, her words mocking and her voice still so full of venom, but I think I can hear the hint of a sniffle like she's about to cry. "I can't get him and you know that. Please don't call and say things like that again."

"I'm sorry, I just--"

Before I can finish my sentence, I'm met with silence. I don't know what Natalie's talking about, but it gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling I didn't like one bit. The kind of feeling that comes when you know someone is about to give you horrible news. I don't want to know the truth of the situation, but I can't stay in the dark. I shuffle to Isaac's number and press “call.”

Again, I'm met with ringing and ringing until I start to think I'm not going to get an answer here either.

"Hello?" Isaac's groggy voice answers. Finally, something that sounds normal.

"Ike?" I ask, trying to choose my words carefully. "I think we need to talk. Can you come in to the office?"

"The office? Are you at the office?" he asks, his voice incredulous. 

"Yeah... Why is that so weird? Why am I the only one here? It's like the office is deserted or something," I blurt out. So much for choosing my words carefully.

Isaac is quiet. Too quiet. I've definitely said too much and stuck my foot in my mouth somehow. I can't very well take it all back, so I just stand there and wait for Isaac to say something, anything.

"Zac, are you feeling okay?"

I groan. "Why do people keep asking me that? I just want to know what's going on here."

"Are you telling me you really have no clue? Or are you shitting me here? This is a fucking sick prank, Zac."

There it is again. Whatever I've missed is definitely important, and definitely bad. I need to just shut my mouth so that someone will actually say what it is instead of yelling at me for not knowing. 

"Zac... you're not joking are you? You really don't know?" Isaac asks, his voice gentler this time, like he's dealing with a child rather than the grown ass man I'd like to think I am.

"No, I really don't know."

Isaac sighs loud enough to carry through the phone. "Okay. Have a seat. I'll come down to the office and talk with you. I guess it's not weird for you go to into shock like this and forget. Maybe. I'll be there as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay..."

"Just please stay right where you are, Zac. I'll see you in like fifteen minutes."

I end the call and sink down into my desk chair. Something is very, very wrong. That feeling in the pit of my stomach is growing, threatening to consume me completely, because I know whatever's wrong has something to do with Taylor.

Taylor...

The last time I saw Taylor was just before I walked out of the wedding reception. Tay was so quiet and still, which is so unlike him that it scared me, and his lips were pressed together in such a tight line you could barely see them. I said goodnight to him, even though there was so much more I wanted to say, but those words wouldn't come. Taylor just gave me a small nod and didn't even return my goodnight. It was beginning to feel like that was the last time I would ever see him – at least, the last time I would _remember_ seeing him.

The minutes seem to stretch on forever as I replay the previous night-–as I remember it--in my mind and wait for Isaac to walk in. When the door finally swings open to reveal him, I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I almost jump out of my chair. He's carrying two coffees and a giant bag that I can only assume is filled with pastries from the coffee shop. I jump up to offer him a hand, and I can't miss the sad look on his face. But it's not just sadness; it looks more like pity.

We sort out the food and drinks in silence. I gulp down half my coffee while he stares at the doughnut in his hand. Neither of us speaks for a while. I didn't want to say the first words because I really, really didn't know what to say that wouldn't dig me even deeper into my hole. So I wait for Ike to make the first move.

"Zac... this really isn't easy, you know. I'm not sure how to explain it to you."

"Just tell me what's going on," I say between sips of coffee.

Isaac runs his hands through his hair and I can see how frustrating this is for him, too. "I want to. I really do. But I need you to tell me what you remember. I don't really understand what's going on with you."

I can't stop myself from laughing out loud. It's just all so absurd. "I really can't tell you. I don't understand it myself. And believe me, if I told you the last thing I remembered... you'd think I was either lying or crazy."

"That really doesn't help me at all," Isaac replies.

"I know it doesn't, okay? I'd be more helpful if I could be.” My voice does that stupid screeching thing that it does when I get angry. I take a minute to compose myself so that doesn't happen again. "Just tell me why my wife isn't at home, why our office is abandoned, and what the hell is going on with Taylor."

Isaac's eyes go wide. "You really don't know the answer to any of those questions?"

"I really don't," I admit.

"Oh, fuck."

"What's going on, Ike? You gotta tell me."

He runs his hands through his hair again, like he's considering some creative lie, then slowly nods his head. "Okay. Okay, one question at a time. First, your wife."

"Okay."

"She isn't."

"My wife?"

"Exactly," Isaac replies. "Well, she still is for a while now. I guess. But she isn't living with you and she sure as hell doesn't want to be your wife."

"I think I can guess why,” I mumble. I can only think of one reason Kate would leave me. Taylor.

"Good, because I don't want to have to say it," Isaac says, trying not to let his face move and betray any emotion. So he knows too.

"Second question?"

"Actually, that one kind of ties in with the third," Isaac says. "It's a little difficult to run the business with only me and you..."

"Is Taylor...?" I can't force the next word out of my mouth. I don't like how easily I've figured out the answers to these questions, despite my lack of memories, and I don't like that I was right. 

Isaac nods, his mouth falling into a frown. I can see the tears welling up in his eyes, and I realize that I'm crying too. 

"What happened?" 

"A car accident. He didn't make it.”

“Oh, god. Was he driving? Was he _drunk_? Did some drunk bastard hit him?” The questions tumble out of my mouth all at once, practically on top of each other.

“No, he... he wasn't driving. We don't know what happened. Someone drove by and saw the car smashed against a tree. Taylor was... in the passenger seat. The driver's seat was empty.”

It feels like there's more Isaac wants to say, but he's holding back. I don't know how much he really knows about everything between me and Taylor, but I can't ask. I just ask. I wonder if Natalie knows, too. It's obvious that Kate knows. She must, if she's gone.

How could everything have gotten screwed up this badly? Things weren't perfect before, but we were making do. I was even starting a new life, a normal life. I don't know what to be more scared about. The fact that my life is all out of order and missing from my memory, or how everything I can't remember has gone so horrible wrong.

The one thing I know is that I have to figure out what happened. I have to find my missing year and make things right.


	3. Lose You Slowly

_August 10, 2007_

Isaac finishes his coffee and doughnuts quickly and leaves me sitting alone. I've got a million questions that need answering but I don't know how to ask them. I'm pretty sure Isaac doesn't want to be bothered with my questions anymore, though. And the biggest question of all is just how I've managed to skip ahead a year, but I know Isaac doesn't have an answer for that.

I keep replaying the night before-–although I guess that's not really what it is, but I don't know what else to call it-–in my mind, hoping that it will turn up some sort of clue. Some reason that this has happened. I wander all around office, looking for anything at all that might help me figure this out. Eventually, I find myself in front of the piano, mindlessly tapping at the dust covered keys, but not really playing any song in particular.

Once I've tired of that, I decide to go back into our main office space and search around it a bit. No one else is going to be in there any time soon, so they won't notice if I make a mess out of it. I'm pretty sure it won't surprise Isaac at all if I make a mess out of things. He obviously knows I'm looking for answers, even if I haven't explained to him exactly how many answers I need.

My first stop is Taylor's desk. It seems like the logical place to look for answers about what has happened to him. I'm sure Isaac could have told me more about the accident, but I can't even think, much less say, the word _dead_ right now. Whatever happened to Taylor in that accident, I can't make my mouth form the words to ask about it.

Taylor's desk is always the messiest. Isaac keeps his fairly tidy and even somewhat organized. Mine is pretty messy, because things just have a way of accumulating there faster than I can deal with them, but underneath the chaos is a general notion of organization. Taylor's desk doesn't have any of that--no cleanliness, or any semblance of a place for things to go, and certainly nothing in its place.

I pick up a big pile of papers and sit down in Taylor's chair to sift through them. It seems natural to sit down, but as soon as I do it, I feel a chill creep up my spine. Taylor would never sit here again, yet I had just plopped down like it was nothing. Dwelling on that isn't going to help me. Looking through the papers is the important thing right now, even if it's really just a mindless task to keep me from thinking too much.

Most of it is boring office stuff – junk mail, copies of contracts, letters from fans and all other sorts of paraphernalia dating back several months. A few worn pictures of his kids are scattered in amongst the other stuff. I pay attention to the dates, just to prove to myself that time has passed. The newest date I see on anything is May 2007. That's only a month ago, apparently. It must have happened then, or not long after that.

The older papers dated back over a year, which isn't surprising. What I really didn't expect to find was a copy of my own wedding invitation. Stuck inside a random paperback book is a worn and torn copy of the unmistakable baby blue stationary Kate had slaved over getting just right.

Looking at how worn the paper is, I have to admit that a year had passed. I could deny it all I wanted, just because it wasn't in my memory, but this invitation was more than just a few weeks old. Time may not have passed for me, but it has passed for everyone else and this wedding invitation is proof.

I flip the paper over to stick it back in the book. There's handwriting on the back that I recognize immediately as Taylor's. I would have known his barely legible writing anywhere. I want to be hurt that he's written on my wedding invitation, but I just can't be. It's stupid to get upset about something like that. 

_Georgia, you know that you've been on my mind_  
Georgia, we've both learned to compromise  
I'll be there for you  
When everybody's coming unglued  
I'll be there for you  
I won't say you have to choose 

I have to read it twice to realize it's lyrics. I don't recognize the song. It must have been one that Taylor had started working on by himself and hadn't found the time to share with us yet. Maybe it was the last song he ever wrote. But if I have to guess, based on the position of the invitation in the chaos of Taylor's desk, it's been there for quite a while. I have a feeling he had written it before the wedding.

At first, I think it's a song written about a girl named Georgia. We have lots of songs with girls names, though not necessarily even the names of the girls that inspired the songs. But it doesn't seem like a coincidence that he scribbled those words on the back of my wedding invitation. After all, the wedding took place _in_ Georgia.

It's a lyrical message. It has to be. It's not the first one we've shared over the years. We always got a kick out of hiding little messages to each other in the lyrics that no one else would notice. Taylor wouldn't be able to read this one, but I decide to write it anyway.

 _'Cause I don't want to let you go  
And I don't want to lose you slowly_

I've got nothing else to say. That's the simple truth of how I feel about Taylor. Not just now, when I know that he's gone, but how I felt when I stared at him at him across the reception hall but couldn't say the words I really wanted to say.

Now I'd never get the chance to tell him.

Unless...

On a longshot, I tuck the invitation into my pocket. It's not like anyone is going to miss it. I have no clue how I'm going to get back in time to actually deliver the message, but if I've got the invitation on me, I can worry about the rest later. Maybe, if I can get back to the right point in time, I can tell Taylor how I really feel. If not with my words, then with my lyrics.

I don't think our office is going to reveal any more clues to me, so I decide to go home and just sit for a while. Maybe I can explore my not-so-new house. It might have some clues about whatever happened in my seemingly short-lived marriage.

The drive home passes quickly and soon I find myself on an unfamiliar couch, watching random daytime programming on an unfamiliar television set. This isn't my home, but it is. I barely even know my way around it yet. I guess it's a good thing Kate isn't around to see me stumbling around, slamming my hand into walls I don't know are there or opening every hallway door in search of a bathroom.

I sit through two programs about women who don't know the fathers of their children and it puts me to sleep. A knock at the door jars me awake. Some fancy doorbell – no doubt something Kate had picked out – rings out next and makes me nearly jump off the couch. I stumble to my feet and rush to answer the door. I hope it's not Isaac coming to ask me more questions that I can't honestly answer, or worse yet, Natalie coming to berate me for my phone call.

It's worse than that. It's Kate.

She looks much, much older than I remember. It feels weird to say that I _remember_ it, when for me, it was only a few hours ago when I last saw her. She was glowing and shining then, the portrait of a blushing bride. Now she's wearing a plain black dress and she looks paler than I think I've ever seen. Even her freckles seem faded.

"Katie."

Her mouth is a thin, tight line and it seems to take her so much effort to speak that I think she might crack and shatter. "You were supposed to meet me at the lawyer's office today at 11. I guess you forgot."

I nod my head. It's not a question, so what can I say? Of course I forgot. The Zac she's expecting might have known about the appointment, but I didn't. How I could meet her at a divorce lawyer's office when just a few hours ago, I was pretty sure I was a newlywed?

I know I have to say something, so I settle for the obvious. “I'm sorry.”

She crosses her arms and rocks back and forth a little on her heels. “Well, I suppose we can make another appointment. I just wish you'd actually show up for them so we can get this over with. All this paperwork takes forever, you know."

I nod again, still unsure exactly what I should say to all this. It sounds like an argument she's had before. "Can I, umm... get you something to drink or anything? Do you wanna come in?"

"No, you can't, and no, I don't," Kate replies tersely. "You want to be friendly and chat with me? Now? Really, Zac."

"I'm sorry? I'm not allowed to be nice to you?" I take a step backward instinctively. Maybe it was a bad idea to invite her in.

Kate stares me down for a minute, like she's sizing up someone she's meeting for the first time. It's more appropriate that she could know. She finally shrugs and steps into the house. "I suppose you've never really been anything but nice to me. It just wasn't enough."

She isn't wrong. That's a fair assessment of our relationship even before the wedding. She might not have known then, but she never really had all of me. She was never enough for me, even though I tried to be everything for her. I don't reply to her statement. I just follow behind her ask she walks straight to the kitchen and helps herself to a glass of water.

"I can try to cook something if you're hungry," I offer.

Kate laughs and it sounds like she hasn't made such a sound in a long time. "No, thanks. You're already divorcing me, do you really need to try to kill me, too?"

"I wasn't! What the fuck, Kate? I'm trying to be nice to you, that's all."

"And I just don't see the point of it," Kate replies, then takes a long sip of her water. "You're not getting me back. We've gone too far for that to be any sort of possibility. So just leave me be."

"I wasn't trying to win you back, _either_ ," I reply, exasperated with how difficult she's being. "I'm not allowed to be a decent human being to you?"

Kate's laugh became a full blow guffaw at that, but it fades off at the end as though it might almost turn into a sob. "That's just not possible for you, Zachary."

I need a drink to deal with all of this. If I know myself at all, then I've got to have plenty of liquor stored in... wherever it is the liquor is stored in this house. I take a wild guess that the small door that might lead to a pantry is actually the liquor cabinet, and I hope Kate doesn't notice my hesitation. It turns out that my guess was spot on, and I wrap my hands around a bottle of expensive whiskey. I pour a generous amount – because why not? – into the cleanest looking glass I can find in the dish drainer.

"Ignoring me now?" Kate asks. "Invite me in, then ignore me. Thanks a lot, Zac. I'm just gonna go now before you get totally shitfaced."

I take a big gulp of the whiskey just to buy myself time. Then I realize that if I give Kate too much time, she'll probably just get fed up and leave. So I slam the glass down and look at her. "What did I do? Why do you hate me so much?"

Kate tilts her head to the side. "You really don't know? After all this, you really don't know?"

I shake my head. If only she knew. "I just wanna hear you say it."

"Right. Right," Kate says with a small nod. "You really want to know?"

I nod again. I'm getting sick of this. "Yes. That's why I fucking asked."

Kate steps across the room until she's standing only inches away from my face face. Her face is like a statue, like it's carved out of pure, emotionless stone.

"Because I know. I know about you and Taylor."


	4. Endings and Beginnings

_June 8, 2002_

This day shouldn't be happening. In the weeks and months leading up to it, that's all I've been able to think. Sometimes I've almost convinced myself that Taylor wouldn't really go through it, but now here we are. The day. And it's definitely happening. I wonder if Taylor feels the same way, if he thinks it shouldn't be happening, too. But I don't know how to ask him. I know it's wrong, though, no matter what anyone else says.

Taylor just shouldn't get married, at least not right now. 

Now, I'm not an idiot. I know this is inevitable. Taylor has to get married someday. I didn't really expect him to stay single forever, and there's no way at all that the two of us can really be together like I want us to be. 

But knowing all that doesn't make me feel any better about this wedding. It doesn't make me any more comfortable in this stupid, itchy penguin suit I'm being forced to wear. There's no way I can stand to stay in that tiny room with Taylor and Isaac and Dad and everyone, so I go walking outside and find a pretty private spot behind the church to hide. There's bench just outside the church graveyard that doesn't look too dirty. I don't really care if I cover this entire stupid suit in mud, but I don't really want to hear Taylor or Natalie complain if I look less than perfect later.

My one little rebellion is to kick up dirt and scuff my dress shoes. Yes, I'm pouting. No, I don't care how stupid and childish I'm being. I _feel_ like a child, so I'm going to act like one, damn it. I'm only sixteen, after all. I'm too damn young to be in a wedding, especially Taylor's. So I don't really care if I look like a child. I'm just going to sit on this bench and pout until someone finds me.

"Zac?"

I recognize the footsteps before I even hear the voice, and I try to ignore both. But I can't. It's _him_ and I can't ignore him, ever.

"Zac."

But I can damn sure try to ignore him. If I sit really still, maybe he will think I'm asleep. Maybe he'll go away. But Taylor knows me better than that and he's too stubborn to give up. Damn him.

"Please talk to me..." Taylor says, sitting down at the end of the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he's not going to move closer to me. He's putting as much distance between us as he can.

I stare at my feet. I'm not going to look at him. Maybe not ever again, if I can help it. But I can't stop myself from speaking. “There's nothing to talk about. You're leaving--” I just barely manage to shut my mouth before the stupidest words ever can slip out.

"You? I'm leaving you?" Taylor asks.

I nod slightly, still not looking up at Taylor. I don't even want to know what kind of face he's making.

He sighs loudly, but he doesn't say anything. We just sit there in silence, both of us pouting. Finally, Taylor stands up and positions himself right in front of me so I have to look up.

"I didn't want to do this to you, you know. Hell, I didn't want to do this to me. It just... happened," he says, his voice soft but his words pointed. Just before he walks away, he adds, "And I'm sorry."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just sit there and watch him walk again. I'm still perfectly content to stay in my little hiding place, but it isn't long before Isaac finds me and tells me I better come in if I have any intentions of still being in the wedding. Part of me wants to tell him that I _never_ had any intention of being in the wedding, but I think better of it. I just stand up and mumble that I'll be inside soon. I dust my suit off the best that I can and shuffle inside to take my place in line.

The ceremony is about as boring as every other church service I've never been to. It takes every bit of courage I've got to stand up there next to Isaac and I feel like I'm probably shaking the whole time. I wonder if anyone has noticed. I haven't eaten a thing all day and I have to suppress a giggle at the thought of my stomach growling during a quiet moment in the ceremony. 

I didn't want to look at Natalie, but I couldn't help it. When she walks in, all eyes are on her, including mine. She carries her bouquet carefully, I notice. No doubt she's trying to cover that little bump everyone has spent the last four months trying not to talk about or look at. Her dress covers it pretty well, too. She looks pale, almost as pale as I feel. The only color on her at all is the red of her bouquet, which matches her lips and the blush on her cheeks when she looks at Taylor.

I hate that look. She just looks so enamored with Taylor and it makes my stomach turn every time. I know I've been accused of looking at Taylor the same way, but that's different. What I feel for him and Natalie feels can't possibly be the same thing. Not even close. 

I can't look at her anymore. I spend the rest of the ceremony looking at the church's stained glass windows. A few times I glance over at Kate, standing on the opposite side, and she smiles back at me. I try to return her smile but my face just won't cooperate. 

It's ridiculously easy to sneak into the champagne at the reception. Kate was only joking when she asked me to steal a bottle. But I can't back down from a challenge like that. No one even seems to bat an eye as I practically chug the bubbly stuff, wishing it were strong enough to really get me drunk like I want to be. Kate thinks it's funny the way I'm downing the champagne – or maybe all the giggling is because it _is_ getting her drunk.

By the time we finish the bottle, I can definitely feel it going to my head. My stomach has been doing somersaults all day, so I can't blame that on the alcohol. And the fact that I haven't eaten anything but a piece of cake probably isn't helping. I've got to find a place to sit down, or maybe lie down, far away from all this noise and commotion. The reception is outside and I've already spotted the perfect place. The parking lot is lined by tall, thick bushes. Surely I can find a good spot behind those to sit down and rest with no one around to bother me.

From a distance, I can make out the crumbled figure of a person sitting against one the bushes. It just figures that someone has had the same idea. Probably someone else who had too much to drink. Then a small, strangled sob catches my ears and I instantly recognize the voice and the body.

It's Taylor. Crying.

I shuffle my feet to warn Taylor of my approach. Taylor might be an emotional kind of guy, but I don't think he would want just anyone to see him crying on his wedding day. He usually doesn't mind letting me see that side of himself, though. But everything about him seems different these days. The last few months have changed everything. Maybe he won't even want to see me at all.

He hears me coming and I can tell he's trying to suppress his tears and pretend they weren't there at all. But then he looks up and sees that it's just me. He doesn't even bother wiping away the tracks of his tears once he knows he hasn't been caught by someone else. I can't even stop myself. In one move, I'm on the ground next to him, pulling him into my arms. I don't even care if he ruins this stupid suit with his tears. I'm never going to not let Taylor cry on my shoulder when he needs to.

“I've really fucked everything up,” he mumbles into my shoulder.

I can't even tell him that he hasn't. I can't say anything to reassure him, because he _has_ changed everything. Maybe in some ways it's a good change, but not for me. So I just pat his back and hope that that's enough reassurance.

We sit there for a long time, and Taylor starts crawling into my lap. I can't stop him. It's so gradual that I hardly even realize it's happening until he's right there, still sobbing into my shoulder. But he isn't crying as hard anymore and his shoulders have almost stopped shaking. I don't want to ruin the moment, but I have to check if he's okay. So I wrap my hand around the back of his head and nudge him up so I can look at his face. His eyes are puffy and red, but his tears have stopped. His bottom lip still trembles when he looks at me.

“Taylor...”

I don't even know what I'm planning to say; I just know that the silence is killing me. I've got to fill it with something, anything. My mouth hangs open, no other words finding their way out of it. Taylor finds another way to fill in the silence, though. He leans up and envelopes my bottom lip with his own lips. 

He doesn't even need to look. We've done this a thousand times. But I keep my eyes open. There's something about his tear-stained face that I can't look away from. What if this is the last time? He's married, for Christ's sake. This _should_ be the last time, but I think that would kill me. The last few months, it's seemed like we were drifting apart, and I can't even remember the last time we were this close. Maybe he still wants me. Or maybe this is one last time, one last memory of what we had.

Either way, I'm not letting it stop with just a kiss. 

His neck is right there, right in front of my face, and I can't help leaning in and kissing it. I won't leave a mark, though. I know better than that. Above all else, we have to be smart about things. We have to be discreet, if that's even possible. After all, we're groping each other in the parking lot at his wedding reception. 

I try not to think about the possibility of getting caught. Taylor doesn't seem particularly concerned. He's crawled completely into my lap now, his legs wrapped around my waist. I can feel his erection pressed against my stomach and I'm sure he can feel mine pressing against him, too. When he wiggles his lips against me, I'm certain he can feel it.

His presses his forehead against mine and we fall into an easy, steady rhythm. We've only had sex-–I mean, _really_ had sex-–a couple times, but he knows my body like no one else. I'd like to think that I know his that way, too, but I'm not the only one. Still, I can't imagine that anyone else can made him tremble and shudder the way he is now. I'm not even touching him, aside from my hands on his back. 

Any other time, I would be embarrassed by how quickly and easily he's getting me off. But I know we're really tempting fate here, so I don't try to fight it when I feel myself get close to the edge. Taylor knows I'm close. He slides his hand between us, finding the button on my pants and slipping inside to wrap around my dick. It only takes a few quick strokes, every move just the way he knows I like it, before I come all over his hand. 

I barely even stop to think about the mess on his hand-–which he's quickly lapping up – or the fact that my pants are still hanging open. I lift Taylor out of my lap and push him back onto the cobblestone driveway. I know he's close, too. Like I said, I know his body. The way his lip trembles, the way his cheeks have flushed an even deeper red than their usual shade – yeah, he's definitely close. I undo his pants as quickly as I can, and his cock is already twitching, anticipating my lips. I barely have time to wrap my mouth around him before he comes, too, his legs shaking and the tiniest moan escaping his lips.

We've been pretty quiet, so I'm not worried about anyone wandering over to see what the commotion was. But I know we've still crossed a serious boundary. This is somehow worse than anything else we've done. Before, we were only hurting ourselves. Before, I've wondered if we were would grow out of this. I know that I haven't, probably never will, but I don't know about Taylor.

He's still shaking, but I don't think it's the aftershocks of his orgasm. He isn't looking at me. He's just staring off into the distance. I'm afraid he's going to start crying again. But he just looks at me, his eyes so big and full of fear. He shakes his head.

“I can't do this,” he says.

He's on his feet and walking away before I can ask what he means. I want to believe he means this marriage, but I know he doesn't. He means this thing with me. 

So that's it, then. This is how we end. Because Taylor had to grow up and get married.


	5. Milk, Cookies and Aliens

_August 11, 2007_

We didn't stop then. Not even a baby and a wife could put a damper on our depravity, it seemed. There was just something about me and Taylor; we could never deny each other anything. He would do anything for me-–the perfect big brother, or a perversion thereof. And I was the starstruck little brother who thought my big brother hung the moon.

We were doomed from the beginning, I guess. Cursed by genetics to love each other so much more, in so many more ways, than we were supposed to.

I didn't see Taylor and Natalie's marriage coming at all. Only a little more than a year before that, we finally let ourselves act on the feelings we didn't know the other shared. Oh, we were always too close to each other. But something about the trials of trying to record that album, trying to hold the band together... somehow, that drew us closer together. Dangerously close. Until we crossed the final boundary.

But I wasn't enough for Taylor. What I didn't realize was that he wasn't just clinging to me. He needed affection everywhere he could get it-–from Natalie, from Michelle, from Alex, from childhood friends he foolishly let fall in love with him. A total, foolish accident forced him to choose Natalie and only Natalie.

At least, for a few months. 

He came running back to me, eventually. But he was never only mine. Natalie knew he wasn't only hers, either. She accepted it more readily than I did. She was willing to let him stray a little, as long as he came back to her at the end of the day-–or, as it were, the end of the tour. 

I couldn't accept that, but I had to. I would have been a hypocrite not to, since I had Kate. She didn't know it, but she was the one I fell back on it when Taylor let me down, as he always did. 

Well, scratch that. She _did_ know. 

Somewhere along the way, in this year I don't remember, Kate has found out. I can imagine a million horrible scenarios of how that truth was finally revealed to her, each one worse than the last. Since the story Isaac told me involved a car accident and not a violent murder mid-coitus, I'm willing to accept that Kate _probably_ didn't walk in on us. Anyway, in that scenario, I would be dead too.

Oh, god.

Maybe I _am_ dead.

I have to admit, there's a logic to that. Because my idea of hell is mostly definitely a world without Taylor. And that's the world I've found myself thrown into. I don't even have my music to turn to, because, let's face it-–I can't make music without him. Sure, I've written a few songs without his assistance, but it isn't the same. Without him singing, playing, or just standing in the room smiling at me as I stumble to play the song myself, the songs would have no life. No meaning.

So that's it, then. I'm destined to a life without meaning. Without Taylor.

Unless I can change it. But how?

I fell into bed last night with the hope-–I'm too far gone for prayer, really – that when I woke, everything would be right again. I knew it was stupid, but I couldn't help wishing for it. Of course the world didn't right itself overnight. That would be too easy.

Now, I've spent the entire day walking aimlessly around a house that I still don't quite know my way around. Why did we decide to buy such a big house anyway? I guess Kate was hoping for a big family like Natalie and Taylor had. So much for that. I don't even know where she's living now. Clearly she's too disgusted with me to wait around here for the divorce to be final.

Anyway, I think I'm wearing grooves into the carpet with all my pacing and still I have no answers. I keep thinking that it must have been some traumatic event that sent me forward in time, because that's how it always works in books and movies. But it was my wedding. How could that be traumatic? Besides the obvious. I'd say Taylor's wedding was infinitely more damaging to my fragile little mind. It's not like I ended up with my pants down on a cobblestone driveway this time. 

What if it isn't the world that can't be trusted, though? What if it's my mind? What if something did happen that I've forgotten? I just can't wrap my head around any of this. I don't expect Kate to be any more forthcoming than she already has been. She stormed out of the house so quickly yesterday that it hardly seemed she had been here at all. I don't know what Natalie knows. She certainly didn't seem thrilled with my phone call, and there's no doubt Kate has told her. But five years of marriage should have prepared her for something like this – okay, maybe not with his own brother. Still, it's not like Taylor was ever faithful in any sense of the word.

But I was. Granted, I was faithful to both Taylor _and_ Kate, in totally different ways. Now I don't have either of them.

So that leaves me with Ike. Who obviously knows that something is wrong, too. And he knows, to some degree, that my mind has betrayed me. He's still speaking to me, and fairly civilly, so maybe I can pry some information out of him. I don't know what I'm expecting, really, but maybe he'll tell me _something_ I've missed that will help trigger some realization. Something to bring Taylor back.

I pace the house a few more times, planning the conversation in my head. Once I've decided it's definitely the right thing to do, I pick up the phone and dial Isaac's cell number. He's not glued to his cell like Taylor, but I trust him to answer it if he hears my ringtone. I hope.

After a few rings, he does. “Zac? What now?”

That's not a very nice greeting. I don't know why I expected better.

“Look, Ike,” I begin, the entire conversation I had planned evaporating into thin air. “I need to talk to you again. Soon. Where can we talk?”

“I don't know what more I can tell you. You didn't make any sense yesterday,” he replies.

Of course he's going to make this difficult. It's is Ike, after all. “I'm going to make less sense today, but I still need you to do this for me. Please?”

He sighs and I can practically hear his internal struggle. Finally, his tiny little brotherly streak wins. “Okay. I'm going to mom and dad's later to check on them. We can talk in the studio.”

“Do they... do they know?”

“No. You can thank me for that later.”

“I'd tell you I could kiss you, but... well. You know what I mean.”

He actually lets out a small chuckle. “I think I know what you mean. Just be there later and keep your mouth shut and away from mine. I'll tell mom to expect you, but you probably shouldn't stick around for dinner or anything. Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

It takes us a few more minutes to devise a plan. It feels like the kind of covert stuff I used to engage in with Taylor, but I don't dare tell Isaac that. He'll jump the gun and start thinking I'm trying to make him my Taylor replacement. I don't need him thinking that.

The plan should work, though. He'll text me if Mom decides to cook a big family dinner, which she's quite likely to decide the very second he turns up on the doorstep. Doesn't matter that the family will never be fully together again; if someone turns up at her house, Diana Hanson isn't letting them leave without an extra thousand calories or so. Especially if that person happens to be one of her “baby boys.” So, Ike is going to text me whenever it's safe to show up and not have to deal with the whole sit down and say grace shebang. I'll turn up saying I want in the studio for something, anything, and act surprised about dinner. But I'll probably still grab dessert – I didn't mention that part to Ike – before we slip out to the studio to talk over this... whatever it is.

I think it's a good plan, but I still spend the rest of the day on edge. My nerves feel completely raw, and that's not just a metaphor. It feels like someone has actually poured salt on my insides. Everything aches from the inside out and I know there's only one thing that can stop that ache. He's the only one who ever could fix all those strange feelings that plagued me.

I take the longest, most thorough shower of my life that afternoon. A nearly empty drawer turned up one of those loofah things that I can only assume Kate mistakenly left behind, and I use it for all it's worth. If I can scrub myself completely, all the way through my skin and into the sickness underneath it, maybe I'll be okay. I remember doing the same thing the first time I realized what I felt for Taylor. His body pressed up against mine on the piano bench and all my hairs stood on end. I couldn't focus on anything but the feel of him, the smell of him-–clove cigarettes and strawberry shampoo. 

That shower didn't help and likewise, neither does this one. It just leaves me with raw, stinging skin to match my raw, stinging heart. 

I pace a few more grooves into the carpet while I wait for Isaac's text. He sends the first one from the driveway of his house, just to give me a time frame. He promises the next one within an hour, but it ends up being more like two. I can only imagine the feast mom has laid out for him and whichever other children happen to be around. In fact, I bet she's done more cooking since Taylor died than ever before in her life. If homemade apple pies could bring back her golden boy, she'd probably have ten or twenty Taylors walking around by now.

Maybe out of ten or twenty Taylors, there would be one who wouldn't stray from me. But I doubt it. And that thought is further proof that my mind is definitely betraying me. I want to believe it's the world and time itself gone wrong, but what proof of that do I have? That's science fiction. This is reality.

Finally Isaac texts again. Mom has shooed everyone away from the table so she can clean up, but the multiple desserts she had waiting are still warm. It should be safe for me to show up, but I still have no idea what to expect. The whole drive there, I can't help wondering how I'm going to fool my entire family. Someone is going to realize that something is just not right with me.

This can't work. But it has to. So I keep driving and soon enough, I'm punching in the gate's security code and pulling my car into the old familiar driveway. Something about the gravel crunching beneath my car's wheels transports me back to when I lived there-–thankfully, only in my memory, not literally. I don't need to go through my awkward teenage years again, thank you very much.

It really hasn't even been that long since we all moved out. First to the apartment in New York and now back here... all to our own little houses. Not like I remember any of that anyway. But I do remember this house, for the whole five or six years I lived in it. It's the longest we stayed in a single house, I guess. It's the big, expensive proof that the three of us did something right with our music, if not with anything else in our lives.

And there I go being all angsty again. I was hoping for just the regular sort of nostalgia, but I had to ruin it. Maybe Mom will greet me at the door with one of her famous pies and make everything better. Somehow I doubt it. As I make my way up the steps, it occurs to me that I don't know if Ike told them to expect me or if I'm going to be a total surprise.

My money's on surprise.

I don't bother with the fancy doorbell. I don't need to scare the wits out of everyone inside. Instead, I just knock nice and loud. The house may be big, but I'm a drummer. I can make enough noise to attract attention, and let them know it's only me, at the same time. Sure enough, before I can raise my hand to knock a second time, the door is flung open. 

It's Mom, and she looks like she's seen a ghost. Well, that answers the question of how often I've visited in the last year. That doesn't sound like me. I mean, the woman _cooks_. How could I not show up at least once or twice a week?

“Hey, Mom.”

It's not much of a greeting, but it seems to be enough. She sweeps me into her arms and hugs me until I think I might burst. Then she shoves me away and does that thing moms do-–the stare down. “Are you doing okay? You look thin. I've barely seen you since the funeral...”

Since I don't know how long ago that was, I have no clue how apologetic to be. I try to look sheepish and remorseful and stuff my hands in my pockets awkwardly. “I'm fine, mom. I just came by to get some... sheet music I think I left in the studio.”

“Oh, you're not writing again, are you?” She eyes me suspiciously, clearly not entirely buying my reason for stopping by. She knows as well as anyone that with Taylor gone, the band can't go on. We always said we'd never play again if one of us left the band, but I didn't imagine one of us leaving this way.

“No, I'm not writing. I just want to store all that stuff away. Get it out of my mind.”

She seems to understand that a little better, and she finally steps aside to let me in the house. “Well, you're going to have a little snack first, aren't you? You look so thin.”

I'm certain that I don't, in fact, look thin. Maybe a little thinner that I remember being the year before, and definitely more... beardy. But not thin enough to cause concern to anyone other than a doting mother. So of course I follow her to the kitchen, ready to accept whatever food she throws my way.

I can't help letting out a sigh of relief when I see that the only other person in the kitchen is Ike. I can hear voices and a television somewhere in the house, so I know we're not the only people home, but it's looking like I can escape without an entire family meeting. That's exactly what I was hoping to avoid, at least until I start to feel a little bit normal. As if that's every going to happen.

Mom thrusts a plate of assorted cookies in my hand and before I can object, she's pouring me a glass of milk to wash them down. Ike offers me a sympathetic shrug and holds up his own half-empty glass. 

“Now, are you sure you're eating well? I can give you some leftovers to take home. I know it's got to be rough, not having... well, having to cook for yourself. I never did teach you boys well enough when it comes to cooking. Seems there was just never enough time.”

I can tell Mom's off on one of her classic rambles. Of course this one is different, though. There's always that bittersweet nostalgia to the way she talks about “her boys,” but now it's got an edge to it. Because one of her boys is gone. I don't think I can stand around and listen to this. 

“Mom, we're gonna go on out to the studio now. I've gotta get those guitars I was planning to sell.”

Ike to the rescue. Again, I think I could kiss him for saving my ass, if that wouldn't result in him immediately kicking said ass. So I just shoot him a look and give Mom one more hug and a thanks for the cookies.

Neither one of us says a word until we're inside the studio. It's got that same musty, unused scent and feeling as our office. It's stifling and I want to suggest we go somewhere else, but I can't think of a single place. So I just sit down on the couch and dig in to my cookies, waiting for Ike to take the lead. Which he does.

“Okay. What the hell is up with you?” He's staring down at me with his arms crossed. I think he ought to patent that stare. It's the same one he always uses when we're arguing over anything and he's determined to get his way.

“You really wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

He rolls his eyes and flops down into a chair. “I thought that's why we were here. So I'm just gonna sit here until you figure out how to make me believe it.”

I happen to think that eating an entire plate of chocolate chip, peanut butter and oatmeal was a better idea than actually _thinking_. Who needs thinking? Thinking is what's been driving me crazy all day. But once the last cookie is gone, Isaac is still there, staring at me. Waiting.

I drink the last of the milk, then clear my throat. “Okay. You know how I was having that memory problem? It's worse than I let on.”

“How much worse?”

“Two nights ago, I went to bed and it was my wedding night. That's not some weird metaphor. It was literally wedding night. It was June 3, 2006. And now, it obviously isn't. Whatever happened between then and now, is not in my brain. To me, it never happened.”

“You know what? It was stupid of me to come here expecting sense from you. It made more sense when I found out you and Taylor were – nope, I still can't say it.”

He stands up and throws his hands in the air like he's done with me. He paces around the room, shaking his head. I think he's going to leave, but he doesn't. He just keeps pacing. He does want to make sense of this, I can see it all over his face. 

“In love,” I say.

He turns and raises and eyebrow. “What?”

“In love. That's what me and Taylor were.” My voice is barely a whisper when I say it. 

I've never said those words aloud before, never admitted them to anyone. Sure, I told Taylor I loved him probably a million times. But he never heard it the way I wanted him to hear it. 

Isaac sits down in the chair again, looking like he's defeated. “Okay. That's all kinds of wrong. You're not stupid, so I know you know that. We can deal with all that later. Right now, will you just explain to me why the hell – _how_ the hell – you have forgotten an entire year.”

“I haven't forgotten it. It didn't happen to me. I. Wasn't. Here.”

“Then where were you?”

I sigh. “I don't fucking know. All I know is that I got married, went to bed, and woke up here. I didn't bump my head and get amnesia or anything like that. I'm just... not in the right timeline or something.”

“Life isn't a science fiction novel, Zac. These things don't just happen.”

“Apparently they do.”

“Unfortunately I'm not an alien with a telephone box. So I don't know how you expect me to help you.”

“Tell me what I've missed,” I demand. “Tell me what happened. Maybe there's a solution in there somewhere. At the very least, I'll be able to go on seeming like less of an idiot for not knowing.”

“Always happy to help you look like less of an idiot,” Isaac replied with half a smile. “Okay. Where should I start?”

"Taylor. Start with Taylor.”


	6. Wine and Whine

_August 11, 2007_

Somehow, I seem to have convinced Isaac. I can hear the desperation in my voice, so I guess he can too. Either that, or he's just humoring me now and he's going to be a bastard about it later. I wouldn't put that past him. Whatever the reasoning, it appears he's going to put aside his usual tendencies and actually tell me what I want to know without rambling.

“I can only tell you as much as I know about it,” he begins. “But, okay. You guys had been fighting a lot. Not always those huge blowups where I think you're gonna rip each other apart. Sometimes the quiet kind, where you don't talk to each other for days or weeks unless it's band stuff. That always scared me even more, you know?”

I nod. I know the kind of fight he means. It's exactly what happened after Taylor's wedding.

“Well, I didn't know what was going on. I was afraid to ask. And I still don't know, but I'm betting it's got something to do with your... your relationship. So, umm, one night you were both at the office really late. I don't know why. But I guess you had a fight again. And he left. Then... exactly what I told you before. Crashed his car. But the driver's seat was empty. I don't know, he wasn't buckled in, so the cops figure he just got thrown over there something.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Makes more sense than fucking time travel.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay. But obviously there's some part of you that believes me. So, okay. When did... when did it happen? Taylor's... you know.”

“June 11. Well, June 12, technically. Just a bit past midnight.”

“Two months? Wow.” I don't finish that thought. It just seems like it's been so much longer, the way that everyone is acting. “And when did Kate...”

“About a month before that. It appears that she walked in on you guys... doing whatever it is that you do. Seriously, can you stop making me think and talk about that?”

“ _I_ can't stop. So forgive me for wanting someone to suffer with me.”

That shuts him up, at least temporarily. And it gives me a moment to think. So, Kate found out by walking in on us. I guess I'll have to ask her for the details of that, since Isaac doesn't seem too keen to share. Then the car accident. It still doesn't make sense to me. How could no one be driving his car? Where was I? Why did I let him leave an argument angry enough to wreck his car like that?

I don't have answers to any of those questions and I know Ike won't either. So I ask him the one thing he can answer, even if he doesn't want to.

“How did you find out?”

“I always suspected,” Isaac says with a long-suffering sigh. “And I thought I was going crazy every time I noticed some little something between the two of you. So I put it out of my mind, but this last year... something snapped in one of you or both you, I don't know. I couldn't deny it anymore. I think Nat must be the same way. But Kate had no clue.”

It all makes sense. It all makes too much sense, if that's possible. If I had to sit down and write a story to explain all that happened during my missing year, this is exactly what I would write. That means something very significant, I'm sure, but I'm not so sure what. But it does lead some credence to my theory that my brain is in control here. My brain is the thing that's gone all wrong and forced me into this weird... I don't know, alternate universe? 

Does that mean the solution to all this is in my brain as well?

I realize I've been sitting here just lost in my own thoughts. I do that. Isaac is staring at me, waiting for me to say something. What can I say? “Anything else important happen while I.. wasn't here?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing more important than what I've already told you. And I still really, really don't understand all of this. I'm taking you at your word here, and your word is insanity.”

“You think this is any easier for me?” I ask, my voice turning to a squeak at the end. “Do you have any idea what it's like in my brain right now? Scratch that-–what it's been like in my brain for the past 20-–no, 21years. Everything is a mess and I've lost the two things that almost made my world make sense. Not to mention that one of them? He was both the reason it was a mess _and_ the reason it made sense. Figure that out. And now. Now, on top of all that, I'm suddenly in the wrong time? If I ever thought I was crazy before-–and believe me, I did-–then I'm just about ready to have myself committed now.”

It's the kind of outburst I never make. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve like Taylor. Sure, I talk a lot, but it never _means_ anything. I talk nonsense to keep myself from saying all the meaningful, scary stuff, like everything I've just yelled at Ike. From the looks of things, I've stunned him into silence. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but I'm guessing it's a little of both.

He stares at me for a few more minutes before he finally decides what to say. “You're right. I don't know what it's like in your head, and I don't think I want to. That's not a judgment; it's just a statement. It sounds terrifying, if half of what you're saying is true, which I'm still having trouble getting my head around. But say it is true. What can I do about it? What can _you_ do about it?”

“I don't fucking know. That's the problem.” It's at this point that I do the one thing I really hoped I wouldn't do in front of Ike. I start to cry. “How can I fix things when I don't even know what's wrong? What if it is all in my head after all? What if it's not? Either way, I'm pretty much fucked.”

“You're not the only one who lost something here, you know.” Isaac's voice is softer now, and it's a tone I honestly can't remember hearing him use in years, maybe not since everything was falling apart with the band and the label. “I lost a brother, too. Not in the same way you did, I know. But I loved Taylor in my own way, and my world is falling apart now, too. So just remember that; you're not alone.”

Something about that pings that same sensor in my brain again. I don't know what it is yet, but I know there's something meaningful about what Ike has said. And he's right. I'm not the only one suffering here. Natalie's all alone with three kids now. The band is gone. Our entire family-–we've all lost Taylor. And I've ruined my marriage in the process. Why does it feel like somehow I'm responsible for all of this? It all seems to center around me and Taylor. 

That definitely means something. I know it does. I just don't know _what_. But if I can figure that out, I can get him back. I know I can.

Ike's staring at me again. It's possible I was mumbling to myself just then. I offer him a tiny smile. “I know. I'm sorry for being so... self-centered, I guess. Selfish. Whatever. I know we're all hurting. I know this isn't just about me.”

Well, that's only half a lie. It _is_ about me, but it's about Taylor too. But Isaac seems to accept my apology. He offers me a hand and helps me stand up, then pulls me into an awkward hug. As affectionate as I always was with Taylor, even before anything started, I've never been like that with Ike. There's always been the normal brotherly distance, I guess. But at this moment, nothing could feel more right than the hug him. 

I let him decide when the hug should end before it starts to get too weird for him. We fall into a silence that's not really comfortable or uncomfortable – somewhere in between, in the way that silences usually are after some tragedy like this. He helps me gather up some sheet music so I won't look like I've lied to mom, and I help him load a couple guitars into the back of his car. 

We walk back to into the house together to return the plate and glass, and I'm relieved that the family seems to have retreated far enough into the house that we don't have to deal with them. Are they avoiding me? I can't help being paranoid about it, but I don't think they are. Ike swore that only he, Natalie and Kate knew the secret. No one else. But maybe somehow they still blame me. 

The silence continues until we're back at his car, standing awkwardly by the driver's side door. He's turning his keys over in his hand and I'm rocking back and forth on the gravel, enjoying the way it crunches underneath my feet.

He finally clears his throat. “Look, Zac. I don't understand this. Any of this. I don't know if you're right about this time stuff or if you're really cracking up. But whatever's happening with you, you're still my brother, and I'm getting low on those lately. So I'm not gonna push you away for being a little nutty right now. I hope whatever it is going on, you can figure out some way to fix it.”

“Me too. Me fucking too,” I reply, then more quietly, add, “Thanks.”

I have to walk away before Ike has time to get all sappy. If given a chance, he can be pretty bad. Usually he just rolls his eyes and ignores anything I feel, but I think something about my desperation right now is getting to him, even if he's still skeptical. Hell, I'm still skeptical. 

It's not like I'm not a total mess right now, too. If I stick around much longer, I'm going to be a blubbering mess in the fetal position, and I don't think my parents' driveway is a good place to end up like that. If I'm going to have a total breakdown, I should probably wait until I'm back in the safety of my own house, preferably curled up in bed with a bottle of wine. If I'm going to go down that overemotional road, I might as well pull out all the stops.

I can practically taste the wine as I drive home. Apparently I really, really want to be drunk. If I know Kate at all, she's probably taken all the best wine and left me with the cheap shit. But that's okay. I'm not drinking for the taste, you know? The way I feel right now, I could down a bottle of the cheapest, bottom of the barrel whiskey and probably not taste a thing.

Since I'm, evidently, a burgeoning alcoholic, I decide to forgo the glass completely. Once I manage to wrestle the cork from the bottle, there's nothing-–and I mean literally nothing–-between me and sweet, sweet intoxication. Well, not that sweet, since I was right about Kate taking all the good wine.

I'm all the way down the neck of the bottle by the time I notice the little red light on the side of the kitchen telephone flickering. I have a feeling that means something. Voicemail? Sure enough, I pull out my cell phone and there's a voicemail waiting there too. From Kate. I forgot how spotty the signal is out at mom and dad's house. She must have called when I stepped into one of the approximately four million dead spots out there.

I don't feel like listening to her messages, and luckily she decides to spare me from it. An entire mouthful of wine almost ends up painting the counter top when the phone starts to ring again while I'm staring at it. I gulp it down quickly, sputter a little bit, and resign myself to answering the phone. If I don't know, she'll just keep calling. I know how persistent she is. Odd, considering she gave up so easily on our marriage. 

“'Lo? Kate?”

“You're drunk.”

Persistent and also observant. “Only a teensy bit. Whadya want?”

Okay, maybe I'm more drunk than I realized. Does time travel make you more susceptible to the effects of alcohol? I may need to research this. Well, I definitely need to research this. Time travel, that is. But the alcohol thing could be worth looking into as well if I have the time. Yep, definitely getting drunk.

“I've been trying to tell you that I managed to reschedule the meeting with our lawyers that you skipped out on the other day. There's still a lot we have to sort out, you know.”

That's going to require another sip of wine. So I take one, of course. “Okay. When?”

“Tomorrow. One thirty.”

Well, there goes my plan to spend the day researching time travel. Since I don't know what's happening, I don't really know how much time I have to fix any of this. What if my entire timeline collapses overnight? It could totally do that, right? I don't know. Which is why I need to do the research sooner rather than later.

“How long do you think it will take?” I don't even care that it comes out as a total whine. She used to find my whine endearing. I have a feeling she doesn't anymore. At the realization that I'm whining while drinking wine, I laugh out loud.

“This isn't fucking funny, Zac,” she says. She never swears, so that shuts my laughter up quite effectively.

“I know, I know. I'll be there on time, okay? I promise.”

“If only your promises actually meant something to me.”

She doesn't even give me a chance to reply to that one. I'm left there with my mouth hanging open and the phone's dial tone buzzing in my ear. Just because I can, I slam the phone down on the receiver. It isn't nearly as satisfying an act of violence as I hoped it would be. The little time display on the phone tells me that I should already be in bed if I have any expectations of being awake, sober and functional by 1:30 tomorrow. One last, long sip of wine and I'm off to bed.

The bed is cold and lonely. I've never liked sleeping by myself. When we were little, I'd always end up in Taylor's bed before morning. Sometimes I think it happened in my sleep. I learned to curb that habit on tour in the cramped bus bunks. But we always arranged it so that we could share hotel rooms, at least until he started inviting girls back to the room. By that time, I had girls of my own-–first Marion, then Kate. Even though we did nothing at all but sleep, it was comforting to have one of them next to me. 

Now I have no one. 

I fall asleep with Taylor's name on my lips, as if I could say it with enough conviction to bring him back and to my bed for good.


	7. In Love

_August 12, 2007_

For the third day in a row, I wake up in this unfamiliar world. Yet again, my wishes have been ignored by whatever higher power is up there. At this point, I've decided that God is just fucking with me. At least, that's what I would have decided if I believed in God.

I trudge through the boring routine of getting dressed and ready to face the day. It isn't a day I want to face at all, so using that turn of phrase feels a bit strange. Like I'm a superhero for going through with this. The guy staring at me in the mirror doesn't look like a superhero; hell, he barely even looks like _me_. 

Without much thought, I pull out a razor and shave off all this stupid stubble on my face, leaving just a bit of a goatee. It makes me look older, but in a good way. Not in the neglected, broken down way I've looked older since I arrived in this timeline. I even manage to brush my hair back into something vaguely presentable-–for as much as long hair on a guy can ever been considered presentable. While I'm on this roll, I even dress myself in khakis and a button-down shirt that I have to assume Kate has bought for me. It's nice to see she left those for me.

It's not ideal, because I still look like someone who has had his spirit broken. Who has lost everything. But maybe that will get me some sympathy. 

As I drive to the address Kate gave me, it occurs to me that I don't even know who my lawyer is. It's probably one of the ones we-–that is, the band-–used in the past when we were dealing with record company stuff. If I know me, and I'd like to think I do, I'll have chosen the path of last resistance. 

Just as I suspect, from the address, the building where we're meeting is this huge posh thing downtown. I have to wonder if Kate's using my money to pay for such a fancy lawyer, and I immediately hate myself for the thought. But let's face it-–it's either my money or her daddy's. I'm not angry, though. The money has honestly never mattered to me; as long as I've got a place to live, food to eat, and I can keep playing music, I don't care what happens to the rest of the money. So it's just a funny thought, really. If I'm feeling spiteful, I might comment on it. But right now, I'm too tired to be spiteful.

I shuffled into the building and realize I have no idea what I'm doing. I pull my phone out to call Kate, but before I can, I see her walking toward me. That's good. I have no plans at all to tell her about my little time problem, but she doesn't seem to really notice that anything's wrong with me. I guess to her, I don't seem that different from usual. She's always seen me as a little bit immature and dumb, a little bit in need of her guidance. She's not wrong.

“Glad you could show up this time,” she says. She's eyeing me from head to toe, and I know she's judging my appearance, but she doesn't comment on it. Thank whoever for small miracles. 

I offer he a a smile, because I'm just not in the mood to talk more than I have to. Again, she doesn't say anything snide. Strange, but I'll take it. She motions toward a hallway and I follow her down it, into some kind of conference room.

Just as a figured, my lawyer is one of the ones we've worked with before. That's good, even if I can't remember his name. Weinberg. Weinstein. Whatever. He's a short little weaselly looking guy, not nearly as imposing and scary as the tall blonde woman representing Kate. 

Honestly, I couldn't tell you anything we talked about in the meeting if I wanted to. It was worse than all the contract negotiations and other bullshit we had to sit through years ago. It's clearly not the first meeting, and since I don't remember that one, I have very little input to make. They all seem to have it covered without my help, though.

“Zac? Zac, are you listening at all?”

I have clearly thought too soon. 

“What?” I ask, realizing that everyone is staring at me.

“The house, Mr. Hanson,” Weinstein offers. “Ms. Tucker plans to move back to Georgia, so we need to decide what will be done with the marital home. Either way, if you remain in it or not, the most common practice is...”

My eyes cross and my ears just automatically tune him out. I manage to catch a few words, though. “Sure, whatever. I'll probably just stay there.”

“Okay, then we need to be sure that the house gets appraised so that we can determine the amount...”

And I'm out again, preferring to spend the rest of the meeting in my own brain rather than focusing on what the lawyers have to say. It's mostly a bunch of legalese that is bound to go in one ear and out the other, even if I do listen. I don't really care _what_ we do with all the financial stuff; like I said, the money never mattered to me. Let Kate take as much as she wants. Everything I care about is gone, anyway.

“Okay, then. I think that's it for now,” Kate's lawyer, whose name I've not even managed to catch, says. “Of course, we'll have to meet again when we get all the appraisals completed and make sure that we can agree upon those values.”

Finally, it seems we've talked over as much pointless financial stuff as we can. We all stand and the lawyers do this sort of professional stand-off thing, all forced smiles and stiff handshakes. Not surprisingly, neither Kate nor her lawyer offer me a handshake. That's fine by me.

My lawyer escorts me out of the room, still rambling about all kinds of financial bullshit that he can't be stupid enough to think I understand or care about. If this is going to happen, and clearly it is, I just want it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. With that in mind, I keep my mouth shut and just try to nod my head at the appropriate points in whats-his-face's speech.

I don't know why, but Kate decides to intervene. I'm sure it isn't because she actually pities me for having to listen to this guy drone on and on about divorce law. Whatever her reasoning is, I'm grateful. 

“Zac, can we talk?”

I don't even bother looking back at my lawyer before answering her. Whether he wants to accept it or not, I'm done with him – at least for the day. “I suppose we can. Last time I checked I was still capable of speech.”

“Funny, because you didn't really look that way during the meeting.”

I don't remember Kate having such a biting wit, such an ability to keep up with my own sarcasm. I guess things change, especially when you're effectively absent from your own life for a year. Unfortunately, I don't have a witty reply to that. At least my lawyer has taken the hint and wandered off. “Sorry I don't have a lot to say about dividing up shared property and shit. Oh, look at that. I remembered what we talked about.”

“Good for you,” she says. “Do you really have so little to say for yourself? That's not the Zac I used to know.”

“I guess I've changed,” I reply. It's probably the most cliche and untrue thing I could say. If there's anything I _haven't_ done, it's change. I'm the guy she knew a year ago, in fact, not the one she seems to think she knows now. But I can't explain that to her.

To my surprise, Kate accepts that without question. “I guess you have. But we both know you were a lot of things all along that I just didn't know about.”

“Yeah, I guess was. But that's all over now, isn't it?”

“You're not out of brothers yet.”

It's like a punch to the gut. Whatever sarcasm and anger I was mustering up is all gone. “I might as well be. Do you know what it's like to have your reason for living taken from you?”

“Yes. I do,” Kate replies, a small, wry smile playing at her lips. “But then I found out he was never really mine to begin with.”

Another punch to the gut. I guess, as stupid as it sounds, I've never really thought about how much I meant to Kate. I've always been so selfish. Everything has been about me. After all, that's how I got Taylor in the first place-–because he could never say no to me and he was what I wanted. And Zac always gets what he wants. At least, he used to.

I've destroyed everything and everyone in my path, all the while thinking I was doing the right thing. How could I be so stupid?

“Gone mute on me again, I see.”

“I-–umm.” Yes, it appears I have gone mute. “It's not... it wasn't like that, Katie. It wasn't.”

“Tell me you didn't love him, then. Or, failing that, tell me you weren't with him first.”

“I can't do that,” I reply. 

Kate shakes her head in disgust and turns to to walk away from me. I can't let her go. I reach out ad grab her arm, maybe a little more tightly than I mean to, but it stops her from leaving. “Katie. Listen to me.”

“What more could you possibly have to say to me?”

I pull her closer to me. “I can't tell you that I wasn't with him first. I can't tell you that I didn't love him. But I love you, too. It's not the same, that's true, but the two of you aren't the same. So how could it be? He was never good to me or there for me like you were. You were the one I leaned on when everything was going wrong, and now I don't have anyone.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you?” She asks, and her voice is cold but she isn't putting much effort into wiggling free of my grasp.

I shake my head. “No. I hate pity. Pity isn't going to fix anything. I just want you to understand that I didn't want it to happen this way and that I... I do love you, I really do.”

My voice may have stuttered and I may not have said it with much conviction, but for maybe the first time, I really feel it. I hope it isn't just because she's all I have left and I want to cling to her. But maybe this is what I needed to be able to see it clearly.

“If you loved me, you would have be honest with me,” Kate says, her voice barely above a whisper. She's still angry, I can tell, but she's giving in just a little bit.

“I'm selfish,” I reply. “I didn't want to lose you, and I guess I was right that I would if you knew the truth.”

Kate finally pulls herself free of my grasp. “You're right. I don't know, maybe it would have been different if I had found out differently, but... I didn't. So we've got to live with what is, not what might have been. And I don't think I can live with you, not with this hanging over our heads.”

She doesn't give me time to say anything else, just turns away and hurries out of the office. I look around and realize all of this conversation has happened in public. There's a receptionist sitting at a desk and I can only imagine what she thinks of us now, but she doesn't look up at me. Working in a lawyer's office, she's probably seen dozens of fights between couples of the edge of divorce. But probably none quite like ours.

The receptionist finally glances up at me and I decide I should probably leave before I start to look really creepy just standing there. I don't really know what this day was supposed to accomplish. I don't know what _I_ accomplished trying to really talk to Kate. I don't think I could ever win her back, no matter what I say. That realization hurts worse than anything else. Even if I make it back to the right time and try to fix all of this... what if I can't? What if everything is too far gone to be fixed?


	8. Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey

_August 19, 2007_

The next week goes by in a blur. That's the sort of metaphor people use when their perception of time is a little off, maybe because everything is just so great or so busy. So no, time did not really go by in a blur. But I'm holding my breath for the time when it does, because it's clear that my perception of time is more than a little off and that sort of thing is bound to happen to me at some point.

I decided to dive head first into figuring all this out. That meant doing a lot of research. I know, I don't seem like the smart, researching type. I think we've already covered the fact that I talk a lot of crazy nonsense as a sort of diversion. A way of hiding all the truth I didn't want to let out. A way of dealing with how genuinely shy and paranoid I am about everyone. So, don't judge a book by its cover. I may not be a rocket scientist, but in the past week I've learned a hell of a lot about time travel.

I don't remember the last time I went to a library, but they didn't really have much that helped me. I picked up a few science fiction books that seemed to feature time travel in their plots. Then I went online. I'm sure a lot of what I found was just conspiracy theories by total lunatics, but there are a surprising amount of scientists studying this kind of shit. I understood less than half of what they had to say. When I had worked my way through all of that, I flipped on the SciFi channel and tried to veg out a bit.

So, here's what I've learned and theorized.

The first issue that anyone mentions is the paradoxes. I can't even begin to understand the science behind whether those exist or not. Basically, it's that age old question about going back in time and killing your grandfather. The general consensus, as far as I can tell, is that some things either have to happen or can never happen. Whatever action a person were to take, if they actually traveled back in time, would not change those things. What must happen, will. What can't happen, won't.

Then there's the debate over just _how_ time travel could actually be achieved. From a scientific standpoint, it would take a lot of energy. Maybe more energy than one individual, even with the help of some sort of machine, could ever generate. Thus, it's impossible. For obvious reasons, I'm dismissing this theory. From a fictional standpoint, there are two theories. First, you've got time machines, which come in a surprising variety of shapes and sizes. Clearly, I didn't use one to get here and I've got no clue how to build one to get back. My car might be pretty and fast, but it's no DeLorean. 

The last theory--the one I like best--is the idea that some traumatic event can cause time travel. You see this one all the time in books and movies; it's not just time travel, it's parallel universes, too, which is why it interests me so much. But, here's the problem. Taylor's death happened while I was... wherever I was. That's arguably the most traumatic thing, yet it was my wedding that seemed to push me forward in time. It's a good theory, but it seems to fall apart when I try to apply it to my situation.

So, let's forget about time _travel_ for a minute and just talk about time. I've got my own theory here and it is hardly scientific at all, but just go with it. I'm a musician, not a scientist. 

Time isn't linear. Everything that has happened, is happening, will happen, might happen-–it all exists in space somewhere. All these moments in time are just kind of floating around, waiting to arrange themselves in the right order-–whatever the right order is, which isn't a fixed thing. Because, like most things we humans like to think aren't sentient, time is smart. Time knows what it's doing. It knows what has to happen and what can never happen. With or without our intervention, it'll end up arranging itself in an order that works.

But what if it doesn't? What could cause it to stop happening in the order that makes sense to us?

That's where I come back to that traumatic event thing. If time isn't linear, then those two big events-–my wedding and Taylor's death-–are enough, in their non-linear combination, to throw my own personal timeline all out of whack.

Now, I'm not narcissistic enough to think that my life and my choices could cause all of time to stop working as it always has. I'm just a tiny little ripple on the water. Hang on tight folks, I'm bringing another metaphor into the mix. I might just be a tiny little ripple, but every pebble dropped in the water, no matter how small, creates waves. Those ripples echo outward and outward, maybe losing strength as they go, but they still have an effect.

So, for now, it's just my timeline. But it doesn't affect just me-–my marriage is over, my band is over, my family is fractured. Ripples. What if the ripples keep multiplying, until everything is collapsing? 

I don't know if time is trying to tell me that I've ruined everything by being with Taylor, or what. You'd think, if that were the case, it might have intervened when we were still teenagers in a hotel bed. But it didn't. Time waited until I made the choice that could really change everything-–getting married. Here I am, getting narcissistic again, but all my theories lead me back to the idea that the universe is out of whack because I don't have Taylor anymore.

But none of that theorizing really leads me to a solution. The only thing I can think of is that, somehow, I have to undo the tragedies and traumas. I'm just not sure how. Somehow, I don't think divorcing Kate is going to solve the problem, but it's happening whether I want it to or not. 

And I can't very well un-wreck Taylor's car, can I?

But I can go to the place where it happened. I may not have been there, and I may not have any memory of the accident, but what if seeing it triggers something? It's worth a shot, I think. So I call the only person I trust to help me through this-–Isaac. He's going to get tired of my crazy bullshit soon, and I'm going to milk it for all I can until he does.

He picks up on the third ring. “Zac.”

“I'm going to ask you for something totally insane. And then I'm going to beg and whine and possibly scream and cry until you do it,” I say. “But, umm, it's not bad or anything.”

“That's reassuring. As long as it doesn't involve gay sex, you know I'm probably going to agree to it.”

I laugh. “I know. That's why I called you. Well, that and your wonderful sense of humor.”

“Just get to the point, Zac.” The words are harsh, but his voice isn't. Somehow, he's still humoring me. If I thought saints were anything other than Catholic bullshit, I'd put Isaac's name on the list.

“Take me to where Taylor died.”

It's the first time I've said that word out loud. I'm getting better at thinking it without completely breaking down, but this is the first time I've opened my mouth and actually let that word out. It's a step, but I'm not sure in what direction. 

“Okay,” he says. “I'll be there in ten.”

There's hardly any hesitation in his voice. That's good. He probably knew this was coming. If I were just suffering a normal, grief-stricken sort of memory loss, visiting the accident site would probably still be at the top of my To Do List. Honestly, I don't know what I'm expecting from it. Or what Isaac thinks I'm expecting from it. I guess we'll figure all that out when we get there.

True to his Hanson genes, he doesn't actually arrive at my house for closer to twenty minutes. I wouldn't have expected anything more punctual than that. Still, I'm standing on the front steps waiting when he gets there. If I've got to do this, and I really think I do, I can't be a coward about it. I've got to face my demons head on.

He doesn't talk a lot on the drive there. Just some small talk about how his new baby-–I don't even know what they named him-–is doing. I don't ask, for fear of looking like a total idiot. On the other hand, maybe all the constant questions are helping Ike to believe that my memory really is gone. Either way, he's having fun just talking away, so I don't want to interrupt that. We need some normalcy and happiness. Anything to forget what we're driving toward.

He hasn't told me what road this happened on, so I'm a little surprised when we turn down one that I know all too well. Taylor and I had a bad habit of speaking away down this road after late nights at the office. But I hadn't been with him that night, had I? We left the office separately. That's what Isaac said.

More and more, I'm finding little things that just don't make sense. Things that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up, even though I can't explain why. I just know something else is wrong. More ripples.

“Are you okay?” Isaac looks over at me and out of the corner of eyes I can see the concern in his.

I realize I've got a death grip on his leather seats, practically digging my fingernails into them. Under any other circumstances, he would probably yell at me for that. But not right now. “Yeah. I'm fine. Just... nervous, I guess.”

He doesn't need to know the details of why this is scaring me shitless. He doesn't need to know about the late nights in my car or Taylor's, stopping at the wide spot in the shoulder not too far from where we are right now. He doesn't need to know about hands down pants, bodies covered in each others' sweat or steam on the windshield.

“Okay. Well, we're almost there. So... just get ready, I guess.”

I nod my head. Inside, I'm a mess. I know I'm only yards away from a place where Taylor and I made love a million times, and, at the same time, yards away from the place that took him from me. I see the latter before we reach it. There's no way I could miss it. The tree has been cleaned up and cleared out, more or less, but the jagged trunk still remains, just beyond the mangled guardrail. And all along the guardrail are dozens, hundreds, of flowers. 

It's a shrine to Taylor, I realize. We pull off the road and I can see the entire scene. There are photos of him-–personal ones and glossy magazine shots all mixed together. Stuffed animals. All manner of Hanson merch, which I find a bit weird. But I guess people want this spot to be remembered. It may not be his final resting place, but it's an important place to so many people now. Not just me.

That realization is like a punch in the gut. I may be the only one hurting the way I'm hurting, but his death doesn't only affect me.

I don't know what I wanted to prove by coming here. I can't even force myself to unbuckle the seat belt and step out of the car. Isaac already has, and he's standing a few feet from the car, waiting for me. He's so patient and understanding-–not words I would always use to describe him, but I appreciate that he's showing that side of himself now, when I need it the most.

Now or never, I guess. 

Taking a deep breath, as if it might give me some strength I didn't already have, I unfasten my seat belt and open the door. One foot on the ground, then the other. My legs are shaking and for a moment, I just sit there with my feet out the door. Finally, I find the courage to stand and walk over to Isaac.

“So this is it.”

He nods. “Yeah. It's not even in a curve or anything... I don't know. I guess it was late and dark, you know?”

“See, it doesn't make sense to you, either,” I reply, crossing my arms. “And that shit about how he wasn't driving? How was he not driving?”

“I don't know. I've given you all the answers I've got, and you keep asking for more,” he replies, his voice going up in volume. He's getting angry. “What did you want to come here for, anyway?”

“I thought it would... I dunno, trigger something in my memory or in this whole time clusterfuck, I don't know. I thought it would help.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Well, you're still here. So I guess it didn't fix your little time travel problem.”

“I guess not.”

I knew eventually Isaac would lose his patience with me, but I just can't deal with it happening right this second. I ignore him and make my way toward the tree. I have to step over piles and piles of stuff, and I can hear Isaac snickering when I get my pants caught on some fucking fake roses. 

But finally, I'm there. I stare the tree down, like it might have some answers for me. Of course it doesn't. I look back at the road, then at the the tree again. In my mind, I can see it happening. Taylor's car, careening down the road at breakneck speed because it's the only speed he knows. We've had a fight, so of course he isn't paying attention. Maybe he glanced down to change the radio or light a cigarette. Just a second, that's all it would take.

I can see it in my mind, but I know that isn't how it happened. The mysterious disappearing driver is something I can't explain at all, but I do know without a doubt that my explanation is not the truth either. So what really happened to Taylor?

Does it even fucking matter?

He's _gone_. And I'm standing beside the road, staring at the damn tree, like that's going to bring him back. 

I don't know how long I stand there, glaring at this fucking tree, before the tears start to fall. I snap back when I see Isaac standing over me and realize I'm curled up in a little ball by the ruined trunk of the tree that took Taylor's life. How long have I been bawling like that? Again, I'm losing time. I have no clue, but it's been long enough to win Ike's sympathy back.

He offers me a hand and awkwardly half-supports me as we walk back to his car. My head is pounding, but I don't think it's just from crying so long. Sometimes that happens, though. I can't bring myself to look back at the tree or the shrine as we drive away.

So much for answers.


	9. The Persistence of Memory

_August 22, 2007_

My tears dry up only hours after leaving the scene of Taylor's death, but the headache doesn't leave. Three days. Three fucking days my head has been killing me. It'll fade out for a while, and then come back full force, usually with some vague memory of Taylor.

The funny thing is, not all the memories are ones I actually remember. I'm seeing scenes and sometimes just pictures of our life together, but it doesn't all add up to anything. Sometimes it's just this vague feeling, this sense that Taylor is near. I can't explain it.

The frequency of these little events, these little lapses in my mind, keeps increasing until I know I have to do something. I'm just not sure what.

Really, I'm just drifting here, trying to find some sort of meaning and purpose in a life that has completely fallen apart. I can theorize all I want, but I don't really know what's happened or how to fix it, if it can be fixed. The way I see it, it doesn't matter if I have any answers. It's just about trying something; if it works, great. If it doesn't, there's not much else I can lose.

It feels like I'm being pulled toward something every time the headache takes hold. Like some invisible string in my body, tied to my heart, is pulling my toward... where? Toward Taylor? Every headache-induced vision is of him. If I could just figure out some way to increase the headaches even more, maybe these visions could totally overcome me and become my reality.

After lying awake all night contemplating it, I decide my best option is to do something that would remind me of Taylor even in my best mental state. Music. I didn't think I would ever play again without him, but now I think it's my only hope.

With my mind made up, I'm able to finally get a few hours of sleep. Visions of Taylor still invade, but I know I'm drawing closer to him. That makes it easier to pull myself from my bed in the morning, even though I still hardly feel rested.

I decide to go to the office, where I can more easily call up a few memories of Taylor, to test out my new theory. The drive passes quickly and headache-free, which is good. I can't help worrying about what might happen if one of the visions overtakes me while I'm driving. That could end very badly. Luckily, for today at least, I don't have to worry about that.

I let myself into the office, which is still eerily quiet, and make my way to the open practice space in the back. One of Taylor's favorite pianos sits alone in the middle of the room. Was he the last person to use this space before he died? It certainly looks that way. 

I haven't really planned much further ahead than this exact moment. Then I remember the lyrics scrawled on my wedding invitation. I've tucked it into my wallet just to be sure I always have it with me. I still haven't figured out why I think I need that piece of paper, but I'm convinced that I do.

That steels my resolve a bit and I make my way across the room toward the piano. Like everything else in here, it's covered in dust and I wipe that off before having a seat. I tap a few keys lightly just to check, and luckily it's still in tune. I pull out the wedding invitation and prop it up in front of me. It's just a few short lyrics with no music, but if I let my fingers guide the way I think I can come up with something. I'm not as good as Taylor at the actual playing, but I'm not too bad creatively.

The easiest place to start is just with the lyrics on the page. My voice is a little rusty, but after clearing my throat and making a few false starts, I've found the melody.

“Georgia, you know that you've been on my mind... Georgia, we've both learned to compromise...”

I don't have any more lyrics, but my fingers are dancing across the keys like they've heard the song before. I'm content just to play the same melody and sing the same lyrics all day. If nothing comes of it, it's still surprisingly cathartic just to sit here and get lost in the music again.

I don't know how long I've sat at the piano singing the same lyrics and playing the same notes when I feel that stabbing pain in my temples. The headache is back. But it doesn't bring with it a memory this time. This time, my vision fades to black and I feel like I'm falling through space, pulled along by that strange tugging at my heart. 

When I open my eyes again, I'm still in the studio, sitting at the piano, but I'm not alone.

Taylor is here. He's standing on the other side of the room with his back to me and I don't know if he sees me or not. It reminds me far too much of my wedding, how he stood aside trying deliberately not to look my way.

While he's off in his own world, I take a look around. Things look different. It's brighter, the dust is gone, and my hair is definitely shorter. In fact, as I look down at myself, I realize that I'm not even wearing the same clothes.

I've done it. I've traveled back in time.

“Taylor?”

He shuffles the sheets of music in his hand and turns his head to look at me. He smiles and I swear it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It's not just his mouth, you know. That's where it starts, at the corners of those beautiful lips, and then the smile spreads out over his entire face. It's a smile I feel like he gives to only me, even though I'm sure that isn't true.

“Yeah, Zac?”

I can feel myself smiling so hard that it actually kinda hurts, but I don't care. “Nothing... nevermind.”

I don't even know what to say to him now that I'm here. Is this real? Is it just another vision, another false memory? I've got two choices – I can tread lightly or I can throw myself headfirst into this out of fear that it will be taken from me again.

Is there any doubt at all? I choose the second option.

“Hey, Taylor... can we take a break from the music?” I don't even know for sure if we've been working on anything, but I figure that's a good place to start. I hope my voice sounded suggestive, but not too much so. I don't even know where I stand with this Taylor.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sure. It's not like we're getting much done today, anyway. This album would be a lot easier to finish if Ike wasn't always running off to tend to Nikki's every need.”

Now I've got some perspective. I couldn't tell you the date for sure, but now I know that I'm in my missing year. That helps guide my actions a little bit.

“You mean, Ike isn't here?” I ask.

“No, it's just you and me today...” Taylor trails off, looking at me like I've lost my mind. There's a look I'm becoming all too accustomed too. “Zac, what's going on? Oh... did you mean? But we haven't... not since you...”

He's stuttering like I've never heard him stutter before. It's cute and I have to force myself not to smile and giggle, because that just doesn't seem like an appropriate reaction to how much he's freaking out. We haven't done _anything_? Well, that doesn't sound like us. But I guess that was why I got married, or at least a large part of it. I wanted normalcy. This doesn't feel like normalcy.

“We didn't have to stop,” I say, standing and taking a few steps toward him.

He pulls back, pulls inward on himself like he's trying to get away from me without actually leaving. “I thought that was precisely what your marriage meant. That we were stopping.”

“That's what your marriage was supposed to mean,” I point out. I know he remembers all the times we fought, all the times he tried to turn me down and couldn't. All the times he came back to me because he just couldn't find anything like me anywhere else-–at least, that's what my narcissistic side tells me happened. 

I can't help reaching out to touch him. This might be the last time I ever do and I want to remember it. He flinches a little when my hand lands on the side of his face, but he doesn't pull away completely or tell me to stop. My hand trails down his face, traces the outline of his lips, feels his pulse in his neck. When it lands on his shirt, I can't help grabbing a fistful of it and pulling his body to mine. My other hand snakes around behind him, pressing into his back to make sure he doesn't run away. 

He doesn't. I'm stronger than him, I know, but I don't think it's just my strength holding him to me. It's definitely not my strength that makes his lips crush against mine and part willingly when I press my tongue against them. I hold onto him so tight my hands start to hurt, but I don't care. I need him closer.

Taylor pulls away just enough to talk, but his lips still brush against mine with every word. “We shouldn't do this here.”

“Please.”

He can't turn me down. I know he never can, and I'm taking advantage of it like I never have before. Even I can hear the lust and desperation in my voice. His defenses are falling so fast I can practically see them crumbling down. With a sigh against my lips, he gives in and kisses me again.

The longer we kiss, the more desperate it becomes. I have to wonder how long it's been for him, and at this point, I don't even know how long it's been for me. Weeks, months, years – whatever. It feels like a decade. He's hard and it's pressing up against my thigh, like I know mine is to him. With my hands still tugging at his shirt, I walk us backward until I crash into the piano.

“Zac? What are you...” he trails off as I kiss my way down his neck. It's a deliberate move designed to make him lose track of his thoughts. I'm completely shameless and I don't care.

I pull back and look his in the eyes. “Please. Right here. I need you.”

For all that I think I'm in control, I'm really not. Being so close to him has robbed me of the power of coherent speech, it seems. But he knows what I mean by the way I pull his hips against me. Usually, he's on the receiving end of this, but this time I need to switch roles. I need to feel him inside me and I don't even care if it hurts. He knows that's what I want and with a strength I tend to forget he has, he spins me around so that I have to brace myself with my palms down on the piano's body.

“Is this the way you want it?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

I can't do anything but nod. I've never gone in for all the dirty talk the way that he does, so I'm more than happy just to listen to him and not say a thing of my own. He knows that, too, so without another word, he reaches his hand around to unbutton and unzip my pants. I let out a sigh of relief-–really, I don't know how he can stand to wear his pants so tight but he keeps telling me tight pants look good on me too. I don't know about that, but it feels amazing not to be confined by them anymore. I don't have much time to think about that before he's pushing my pants down to my ankles.

For a split second, the warm feeling of him pressed up behind me goes away. Surely he isn't going to leave me like this. Then I hear the sound of his belt buckle being undone. Within seconds, he's behind me again, his hand snaking around my front to wrap around me. He's not gentle, but that's okay. I'll take this any way I can get it right now. He runs his hand across my face and I'm not sure what he's doing at first, until he presses his finger against my lips. I oblige, taking it into my mouth and sucking it like it's an entirely different part of his anatomy. There's something intensely satisfying about the groan he lets out; I love knowing how good I can make him feel. 

Soon, he slips the finger from my mouth. It disappears for a second, then I feel it pressing between my cheeks, seeking entrance. A loud groan escapes my mouth as Taylor finds exactly what's he's looking for. He's still not being gentle with me at all. If I wanted to complain, I can't. Every thought but how much I want this is being pushed aside and replaced by the feeling of pure pleasure with just a hint of exquisite pain.

He must be upset with me. The way he's grunting and groaning and not giving me the slightest hint of mercy gives it away. He barely gives me any time to prepare before he withdraws his finger and swiftly replaces it with his cock. I'm almost embarrassed by the way I whimper pathetically, yet still push my hips backwards, urging him even deeper.

Taylor moves at breakneck speed, digging his fingernails so deeply into my hips that I know I'll he'll leave marks. Will I have to explain that to Kate? Or will I wake up back in the world where both she and Taylor have been taken from me?

“Fuck,” I manage to groan out, and it's only partially because of the way Taylor's tearing me apart. 

I hate myself for thinking about how I know this is going to end. I know this moment can't last forever. Somehow, I just know that this is only temporary. He'll be taken from me again. But I don't dare ask him to slow down and make this last. I _want_ it to hurt. I want the pain, because it seems like that's all I have left anyway.

He's thrusting so hard that I can't even think about that anymore. All I can think about is that moment, about the way his cock feels buried deep inside me, his face pressed against my neck as he kisses me between groans. He's getting closer, I can tell. I wrap my hand around my dick and try to match his pace. With a few long, deep thrusts, he comes, whispering my name against my back, and that's all it takes to put me over the edge, too. I'll always love the way he says my name.

His anger seems to fade in the afterglow. He doesn't even pull out of me yet, just holds me close as we both come down from that high. Our breathing syncs up almost perfectly. Everything about this moment is perfect. 

Then the headache returns. 

It's a slow and steady throb in my temples, building to an awful tempo. I want to ignore it but I can't. I can hear Taylor's voice, asking if I'm okay, but he sounds miles away. I try to brace myself, try to dig my hands into the piano somehow, as if that could stop this from happening. It doesn't. Everything goes black and my stomach turns somersaults again.

When I open my eyes, I'm still in the studio, still standing over the piano. But Taylor is nowhere to be seen and I'm all alone. I'm cold – not even the wonderful warmth of his body against mine could survive the mental journey I've just made.

It was all in my mind, wasn't it? It had to be. I can't even feel the marks his nails made against my sides. Everything about that moment is burned into my memory, but gone from reality. I'm alone again.


	10. My Brother, The Spanish Inquisitor

_August 22, 2007_

I must have fallen asleep right there in the studio. I really don't remember anything after the awful realization that was I back in the present-–or is it the future?-–without Taylor. The only thing that brings me back is the sound of my phone ringing. I'd rather just ignore it, but my back is starting to ache from the position I'm curled up in on the floor, so I've got to move anyway.

After what feels like the four millionth ring, I finally concede to answering. “Hello?”

“Zac, are you alright?” It's Ike, of course.

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it. I know he means well by checking in on me several times a day, but it makes me feel like a child. I'm not a child. I'm just a little lost. “I'm fine. You don't have to send out the police or anything.”

“It's just... I drove by the office, and I saw your car there and the lights on. What are you doing there?”

“What the hell, Ike? Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

If it were possible to hear eyes being rolled over the phone, I'm certain I would be hearing his right now. “I'm just worried alright? The last week... the last couple days, you've seemed like you were... I dunno, getting worse.”

“Define worse.”

“I don't know. You just seem like you're not all here, or something.”

“You have no idea,” I reply. “You really have no idea.”

He growls. “No, I don't. And I'd ask you to tell me, but even when you do... it doesn't make sense. So I don't know what to do other than to keep calling and making sure you're still in one piece.”

“I'm not _not_ in one piece. Good enough?”

“Not really.”

Leave it Ike to be far more demanding of me than is necessary. What does he really want from me right now? If I told him even half of what just happened... he'd follow through on the plans I'm sure he's already making to have me committed. I've been lucky that he's been so accepting of everything I've told him so far, but I think “I time traveled backwards and I had sex with my dead brother” might be taking it a bit too far.

“Zac? Are you still there?”

I sigh. “Yeah, I'm still here. I'm just gonna go home and... sleep. Sleep would be good.”

“It's 4pm.”

“No way. I came into the office early this morning. I haven't been here that long.”

“Maybe you lost track of time,” Ike suggests.

“Oh, that's not even funny,” I reply, but I can't stop myself from laughing at it. It's all just so absurd, and he doesn't realize how right he is.

Isaac raises his voice to break through my laughter. “I think I missed the punchline.”

“You haven't missed nearly as much as I have.”

He snorts. “Okay, that was a cheap shot. Are you gonna tell me what's so funny, though?”

“I really can't,” I say with a sigh, throwing my head down on the piano. Maybe I could knock myself out and it would land me back in that other reality. With my luck, I'd end up in some even worse reality. “You've been pretty understanding, and you have no idea how much that means to me, but I just can't even begin to tell you what just happened.”

“If you say so,” he replies. “I'm listening, though, if you want to try.”

"Yeah, I really don't.”

I really wish Ike would just get the hint. There's no way I can explain this to him. I just want to go home and curl up in my bed, even if it is only 4pm. Which I still maintain is later than it should be. Where is all my time slipping away to? Did I fall and knock myself out for hours, during which I had a very vivid sex dream about Taylor? Somehow, that makes even less sense than the other possibility. 

The possibility that I'm actually beginning to somehow break through and gain control over my timeline. 

“Zac? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I was just... thinking.”

“Are you sure you're okay? You sound... strange. I mean, like, sick strange. Are you feeling well?”

Here comes the doting big brother. Usually that's not Ike's job, but I guess it has to be now. “I'm fine. I just need to lie down for a while. Maybe things will make sense when I wake up. Or maybe they'll be entirely different. Who knows, really.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

I groan. “No, I'll be fine. But after I get home, I don't plan on driving or anything like that until these damn headaches pass. It's probably not safe.”

“Headaches?”

Oh. I've said too much now. I was really hoping I wouldn't have to explain that to him, but now I've stuck my size ten foot in my size eight mouth. Figures. Maybe I can skirt around the issue and not tell him everything...

“The last couple days, my head has been hurting. Maybe I'm not getting enough caffeine in my blood stream or something. You know how grouchy Tay gets when he... well, nevermind. Anyway, I'm sure these headaches will pass soon enough. But they can be pretty intense.”

That seems like a good explanation to me. Of course, Ike will probably still want me to see a doctor for them or something, but I have a feeling that really isn't going to help. “Well, alright. Take some ibuprofen and hit the sack, then. It sounds like a migraine or something that just needs to run its course.”

“Yeah. I'm sure that's what it is.”

Somehow, I manage to get Isaac off the phone pretty quickly, after assuring him that it must be a migraine and that I plan to take a long nap and some pain pills. In fact, I am very much sure that isn't what it is. I used to get migraines a lot when I was younger, especially when we first got famous and we were constantly surrounded by bright lights and screaming girls. Nothing ever helped, except a lot of rest, usually with Taylor to hold me and let me nuzzle my face in his chest to block out the light.

Looking back on it, I suppose the two of us were always too close, even before we realized what it meant. It's strange how you realize things like that once you've got some distance and you can reflect. I wonder what, years down the line, I'll make of this particular time in my life.

But right now, I don't want to think about it at all. As I drive as carefully as possible back to my house, I decide that all I really want to do is sleep the rest of the day away. But before I do that, I think I will take Isaac's advice and down a few pain pills. Knowing me, I'll probably wash them down with some whiskey or rum. If I'm going to end up passed out anyway, I might as well _really_ pass out. 

True to my word, I'm barely out of my shoes before I'm in the kitchen, pouring myself a large glass of bourbon the rocks. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts, since I'm sure in the morning I'm only going to wake up to an even worse headache with a side of hangover. Sipping as I go, I head to the bathroom and dig through the medicine cabinet for pain pills. I've got a few left of what looks to be a very old prescription, but I bet they'll do the trick.

Kids, don't try this stuff at home. I'm practically a trained professional at knocking myself out with copious amounts of drugs and alcohol.

Sure enough, the rest of the evening goes by in a blissfully headache-free blur. At some point I order a pizza, because I'm entirely too legless to even attempt to stand up and cook something. The delivery boy eyes me oddly, so I give him an extra large tip. That's really the most I'm aware of, aside from hours spent sitting by the television, slipping in and out of consciousness. It feels nice to have my head not only free of pain, but empty of everything. No horrible thoughts, memories or visions. Just wonderful static.

I don't snap back to reality until I hear someone knocking at the door. It's insistent, but fairly soft, so I'm not sure how it even woke me. But something about it just demands my attention, so I stumble from the couch and make my way to the door, not really caring how much of a mess I must look.

It's probably Isaac checking up on me, I figure. He seemed so concerned earlier when we spoke on the phone. I appreciate it, but I have a feeling it's going to get very smothering very quickly. There's nothing he can really do for me besides dote and worry, and that doesn't really help.

But I'm very, very wrong. It's Kate.

“Kate? What are you...”

She bites her lip. “Oh god, you're drunk again. You _reek_ of alcohol, Zac. What are you doing with yourself?”

“It's so good to see you, too,” I say, proud of myself for only barely slurring the words. She's right. I'm a wreck. No use arguing with her about that.

“If it's so nice to see me, are you going to at least invite me in?”

I step aside and give a grand flourish. “Come right in.”

We stand awkwardly in the foyer, neither of us saying a word, just staring each other up and down. She doesn't look all that well, either. Her eyes are bloodshot and the bags under them are even worse than the last time I saw her. She put on a good face that day, but I could still see how this was wearing away at her.

She finally gives a long sigh and begins to speak. “So... I talked to Nat, who talked to Nikki, and... well, I just heard you were in bad shape, that's all.”

“Hooray for the Hanson grapevine. So glad to know everyone's talking about me. Can you guys just let me fall apart in peace?”

“We really can't. Some of us care about you.”

“And yet _you're_ the one here to check on me. The one I'd imagine cares the least about me.” It's the alcohol talking, I swear it is. Even as the words come out my mouth, I want to punch myself for each syllable. I'm only digging myself in deeper with each biting remark.

“I may not be Taylor, but I'm still capable of loving you.”

My stomach turns. It's amazing how she can manage to wrap a compliment up in an insult like that. I can't even say that I know she means well, because I really have no clue what any of this means. And I don't think that's just the alcohol confusing me.

“Kate, why did you come here?”

She takes a hesitant step toward me. I can almost see her internal struggle over it. “I told you. I wanted to check on you. I'm really worried. I don't know what's going on with you right now, but it doesn't sound good.”

“Why are you worried, though?”

“Zac, we've been together for six years. No matter what happens-–no matter what's already happened-–I can't just erase you from my memory... or my heart. That's why this is all so tough for me. Do you get that at all?”

I nod. I don't trust myself to speak. I know exactly what she means. I can't tell her, but if I had to choose between her and Taylor, I don't think I could. They both fill these voids, these needs, in me in such different ways. I don't know that I ever believed in soulmates, but if I did, I'd have to wonder if it isn't possible for a person to have more than one.

“I do get that,” I finally manage to say, and my voice sounds so weak and far away. “Katie, you know I love you. I don't want this to be over between us.”

“I'm just not sure what other option we have...” she replies. “I mean, it's already all underway now.”

I reach out and tentatively run my hand across her cheek. She doesn't push me away, so I take that as a good sign and I push on further. “But you don't want it to be over, either. Do you?”

“I just don't know. I really don't,” she says, almost leaning into my touch. “I mean, I keep looking at Natalie. She's gone through so much more than me and somehow she's holding together. Maybe she's just stronger than me. But if she can carry her load, why can't I carry mine?”

“Stay with me. We can carry this load, together.” My voice is barely more than a whisper and I can hardly believe I'm even asking that of her. She'll say no, I'm sure.

“Okay.”

I stare at her blankly, unsure if I've heard her correctly. “Really?”

“Just... just for tonight. After that, I don't know what will happen.”

“Neither do I,” I reply, and she has no idea just how honest of a statement it is.


	11. Time Travelers Anonymous

_August 23, 2007_

Whether it's the alcohol, the pills or Kate, I wake rested for the first time in days. No, scratch that. For the first time since I woke up in this reality. Sleep is no longer the enemy, not as long as she's here. Of course, the morning also comes with the sinking feeling that it can't last. That she'll be gone once we've shared an awkward breakfast.

I can't help wondering how fumbling and inexperienced I was to her last night. To me, it was only the second time. To her... I don't know. It wasn't like I remembered, but I suppose it couldn't be. We weren't celebrating or reaching a milestone this time. We were searching for something lost, I suppose.

I wonder what she found, if anything at all.

Whatever she's found, she isn't running from it. She's curled up against my side the same way I remember. She looks troubled, though. Her brow is furrowed like she's lost in some nightmare. Maybe she is-–in more ways than one. That's a feeling I can relate to.

It takes a little work to wiggle my way out of her grasp. It's funny--usually it would be the other way around. I'd be the one troubled and clinging to sleep and she would be the one ready to wake. It's such a sudden, strange change from the way I've been for the past few weeks. It's definitely not because of the alcohol and pills last night, which I can already feel taking their revenge on me. Is it because Kate is here with me?

I pull myself from the bed, deciding that a cup-–or possibly an entire pot-–of coffee is just what I need to stave off the oncoming headache. I'm pretty sure, though, that it's just a hangover and not the return of... whatever it is I've been suffering from for the last four days.

It's hard to believe I've been in this reality for so long. Three weeks, almost. Somehow it seems like forever and like the blink of an eye at the same time. I don't know how to reconcile that discrepancy in mind, but it's certainly not the only little time problem I'm having right now. Time always has a way of slipping away from people, doesn't it? We never really pay attention to its passing properly. It either speeds by because things are wonderful, or it seems to last forever because things are terrible. But all of that is just perception. I suppose no one ever has a good grasp on the reality of how they're moving through time.

Except for people like me-–assuming there are other people like me. Maybe there's a support group for this short of thing. Somehow I doubt it, and I wouldn't know how to go about finding it anyway. Time Travelers Anonymous?

My brain does strange things when forced into action in the morning. But, since I seemed to have slept just fine, I have no desire to crawl back into my bed, except to spend more time with the woman in it.

“Zac, do I smell coffee?”

Only, it appears that woman is no longer in it. I turn my head to see her standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. She's still wearing the old t-shirt I gave her to sleep in and nothing else. Somehow, she looks perfect., even with her hair a little messy and a few smudges of makeup left from the day before. She looks like my Kate again. Finally, something in this world that looks and feels normal.

“Yeah, the coffee's almost done. I don't know about you, but I'm taking mine with a little dash of whiskey. I, umm, I could make some toast or something, too, if you want...”

She shakes her head. “No, just coffee is fine. Milk and sugar; no whiskey.”

This really does feel normal. But it also feels like I'm stepping on pins and needles, just waiting for it to end. Nothing I want seems to stay, so I'm sure this won't either. I have to tread lightly and just hope I can extend this moment as long as possible. As if I actually have some control over the way my time is going.

But I do, I remember. I controlled it yesterday, if only briefly. Can I do it again? Or will it just fade away? The thought that even what control I have is only fleeting and will only leave me longing more is the very reason I'm pouring whiskey into my coffee, hoping to prevent the headaches from starting again. I can't let myself be tempted by the momentary closeness to Taylor that those visions brings me.

“I've heard of hair of the dog, but I think you're taking it a bit too far,” Kate remarks. I almost drop my cup when I realize how close she's standing. I must have been lost in my thoughts again for too long.

“Trust me, I need it,” I reply, offering her the closest thing to a smile that I can manage. I figure that will keep her from worrying too much. She'll think I'm just trying to fight the hangover.

I'm not sure she totally buys it, but she's willing to at least let me off the hook for now. There's probably a lot more important issues she wants to talk about, but I think we're both trying to ignore all of that for the time being. We sit at the table and sip our coffee in awkward silence. To an outsider, we'd just look like a picture of a happy couple enjoying their breakfast in peace and quiet. Only the two of us know that isn't true.

“Zac.”

The silence is broken, finally, and of course she's the one to break it, not me. I'd drag this out forever if I could-–whatever forever is, anyway.

“Yeah, Kate?”

She sighs. “I shouldn't stay here all day. I shouldn't have come here at all, you know. I should just leave before...”

“We've already done something stupid, if that's what you were going to say. Although I wouldn't characterize it that way, but thanks.” I'm not angry, because I expected this. But I just don't have the patience to be nice right now. I just want to say what I mean.

“I didn't mean that,” she replies, then bites down on her lip. “Well, I kind of did mean that. It's what I was going to say, anyway. Look, Zac... this can't work. You know it can't.”

“We haven't even tried. So, no, I don't know that it can't work. A few months of trying, months that I don't even--” I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. _Months that I don't even remember._

Kate eyes me strangely, but doesn't press me to continue. I guess, maybe, for once I've said something right. We really haven't tried. I don't know what I was like in that missing year, but I can guess. I wasn't any different than I was before. I gave my all to Taylor-–at least in my mind, judging by how surprised he was in my vision-–and Kate got what was left.

It isn't fair. 

I almost drop the coffee cup when I realize it. How can I not have seen before just how much I've lost? I've been so focused on losing Taylor that Kate was almost an afterthought. Yet, I know that if given the choice, I couldn't give either of them up. But in this other world, this strange world, I'm without both of them.

What if I have to choose now? 

I can stay here and try to mend things with Kate, accepting that Taylor is gone. Or can I refuse to accept that and keep trying to get back to Taylor. But what if I can't get back to save Taylor _and_ I can't get Kate back? What if I've lost them both for good and there's nothing I can do about it?

This trip into the future is feeling more and more like it's trying to teach me a lesson. I hope the lesson isn't that I do have to choose, that I'm a selfish idiot for wanting them both. But I'm afraid that's what it is. If that's what this is all about, I want no part of it. I won't stay in this world. Whatever those headaches and visions were pulling my toward, I'm not going to fight it.

Kate's eying my strangely, but I can't stop to explain any of this to her. I stand up and dump my liquor-laced coffee down the sink, rinse the cup, and pour myself a fresh cup, this time filling it only with coffee.

“Trying sobriety for a change?” Kate asks when I finally turn back around to face her.

“Something like that,” I mumble, shuffling back to the table. I sit down and take a few sips, trying to collect my thoughts and figure out what to say. “Look, maybe you're right. Maybe you should leave. I'm really not feeling well today and maybe... maybe we need some space again to think about what happened last night. But I still don't want this to be over, okay?”

I hope that makes sense and convinces her. She nods slowly, taking in what I've said. “Okay. Space is good. You're right. I'm going to go get dressed.”

I nod, and watch her walk out of the room. I can already feel my head beginning to pound again, but I try to ignore it. I don't really know what I look like from the outside when one of those episodes happens, and I'm really in no mood to find out. Hopefully I can keep myself strong and not let Kate see that. If I can just hold it off until she leaves.

But of course the pounding gets stronger with every second that passes. My vision starts to blur a little. I've got to do something to distract myself, to keep from giving in. I jump up and practically sprint to the living room. Television, especially at this time of day, is disgustingly mindless, but it should distract me enough. There shouldn't be anything on daytime tv to make me think of Taylor and give in to the desire to see him again.

There's a cooking show on, and anyone who knows me knows how much I love food. That should be the perfect thing to suck my mind in and keep me from falling down the rabbit hole. I can't cook to save my life, though. But Taylor could. Damn it. Everything is bound to remind me of him. I just need to hold out until Kate's gone, then I can let myself drift away. Maybe this time I won't come back...

There it is again. I hardly even had to work for it this time. The only way I can describe this feeling is like there's this invisible thread in me, pulling me backward, pulling me into this other reality, the year I've lost. I'm powerless to fight it, even though there's a tiny voice in the back of my head screaming that I need to just hold on a little bit longer.

But I can't. I want desperately to be back in that world and I'm not going to fight it.

I'm floating, fading away until my body feels weightless. I can see Taylor off in the distance. I don't know where we are, but I'm with Taylor. That's all that matters. Slowly, the scenery forms around us, coming into focus a little bit at a time. We're at dinner somewhere with our wives. But I'm focused only on Taylor, and he's staring back at me. I have this sinking feeling that he lied to me before, when he said it was over. His eyes now don't say _over_. 

I know that Kate and Natalie are talking, but I can't hear their voices. It's like the vision hasn't fully formed, but I'm in it regardless. I try to focus, try to will myself deeper into this world, but I can't. It's still fuzzy and half-formed like a dream.

“Zac.”

Finally. I hear Kate say my name, but her lips aren't moving. Something isn't right with this picture at all.

“Zac. Zac, what's wrong?”

Her voice seems to be coming from all around me, and it dawns on me that I'm really hearing her, back on the other side of this vision. Like a rubber band snapping, I'm pulled back into the other world. I've managed to fall onto the floor this time, and Kate's staring down at me with worry in her eyes.

“Did you fall asleep? Or pass out?” She asks, and though her words are accusing, I can still see and hear her concern. “It looked like you were... I don't even know what it looked like. You were scaring me, Zac.”

“It scared me, too,” I mumble, rubbing my head as I slowly pull myself to my feet. I'm a little unsteady on them, and Kate grabs my arm to help pull me to a seat on the couch. “I'm sorry I scared you. I guess I did fall asleep.”

“But it looked... you were so still, Zac,” she says, her voice catching a little on the last words. “It wasn't like anything I've ever seen before. Except like... I don't know, a seizure or a... a coma or something. Don't do that again, please.”

I wrap my arms around her as her shoulders start to shake and tears begin to fall from her eyes. “I'll try not to. I'm sorry. I'll be fine.”

They're just stupid platitudes that don't mean a thing. And every one of them is a lie, except the apology. I can't fight this. I won't fight this. I'm giving in to this and next time, if there's anything I can do about it, I will stay in that other world.


	12. Indian Tribal Dances

_August 24, 2007_

To my utter frustration, the rest of that day passes without incident, and the next one seems poised to do the same. The headache is still there, a dull throb pounding at my head all day. But nothing happens. Vague shadows and notions pass by my eyes, but I can't hold onto any of them.

It doesn't seem totally fair to blame Kate for pulling me out of that vision and ruining everything, but it's tempting.

There's really no rhyme or reason to any of this, so I just have this uncontrollable urge to blame _someone_. I suppose I could blame myself. And mostly, I do. It's eating away at me all day, although that's possibly because I've decided to lock myself in the house and not leave ever again. 

Of course, someone has to come along and thwart that plan. Somewhere around noon, Ike begins calling. First he calls the landline--why the hell do we have that anyway?–-then my cell phone. Then he alternates between the two until I've turned the ringers off on both. I just want to be left alone so that I can drift away uninterrupted, even though I seem to be getting farther and farther away from the visions I want to lose myself in.

I'm not even letting myself near the phones to see if he's calling, but it still doesn't surprise me at all when I hear an insistent knock at the door, followed by what sounds suspiciously like someone pressing their entire body against the doorbell.

I'll give Ike credit for one thing-–he's a stubborn motherfucker. Under other circumstances, although I can't really think of any, I'd probably appreciate that quality more.

“Zac! I know you're in there! If you don't let me in, I will call the cops to bust this door down.”

Like I said-–stubborn motherfucker.

I guess I can't fight it anymore. Ike has tried to be there for me, and that's more than I deserve, so I don't really have any choice but to open the door for him. When I do, he teeters forward and nearly falls into the house, one fist raised to knock on the door again. I can't help giggling, but only a little. The serious look on his face tells me that laughing isn't going to make this easier for me.

“What the hell? I was really hoping you had fallen and broken a leg or something, because otherwise there is no excuse for not answering my calls for _five fucking hours_.”

“Has it been that long?” I ask, adopting a blank look, although I'm only half joking. Time has become such a relative concept to me lately that I really don't know how long I've been ignoring him. Which reminds me, I don't think I've eaten all day. That's probably not good. So before Ike can reply, I take off toward the kitchen, hoping he follows behind me.

And of course he does. “Seriously, what the hell, Zac? Yes, it's been that long. I heard through the grapevine that you passed out yesterday morning when Kate was here-–which reminds me, why the fuck was Kate here yesterday morning?”

“She umm... spent the night,” I reply and wince in advance of the barrage of questions I expect that to bring on. For the moment, I'm spared. “That grapevine you speak of goes both ways. She heard I wasn't doing too well, so she came to check on me. Am I a fucking child now? Do I have to constantly be under someone's supervision?”

“With everything you've told me in the past month, you're lucky I don't have you under _professional_ supervision.”

I roll my eyes at that. “I'm reasonably certain you can't have me committed against my will. Although, the way things have been going, I'm not sure it _would_ be against my will...”

“What's going on now?” he asks. “You know, I do care about you. And you look like a wreck. So would you mind telling me why you're considering voluntary commitment?”

“Like so many other things I've told you, I don't think you would believe me if I did.”

“Try me,” Isaac says. “I find my threshold for ridiculous statements from you is actually quite high. Always has been, but even more so these days. So just try me.”

I look up from the sandwich I've been assembling. “Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you. I've had these headaches, right? They started the day you took me to where Taylor died. And first it was just headaches, but then there were these visions that came with the headaches. That's the only thing I can think of to call them. Want to break out the straitjacket now or can I keep going?”

He crosses his arms. “Keep going. It's surprisingly amusing to watch your complete mental breakdown.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “So, the day you called me, when I was in the office, I had just had a vision, but it was different. I was actually _in_ it. And I think somehow I went back in time. To the time I'm missing.”

I take a big bite of the sandwich to shut myself up before I tell Isaac just exactly what happened in that vision. He watches me closely, probably waiting for the punchline. I'm prone to some pretty ridiculous tangents and rambles, but I think this one is even worse than what I could actually invent. And, worse yet, it's not invented at all. It's reality.

“Okay,” he finally says, drawing the word out for several seconds. “How do you know it wasn't just some... I don't know, hallucination? Delusion?”

“I suppose it could be. That would explain why I lost so much time the first time it happened, in the studio. But it wasn't like that when Kate was here... I think. I'm not really sure.”

“So that's the weirdness that Kate was talking about.”

“I suppose so,” I reply. “I didn't really get fully into that vision. It was more like a dream, really. Except Kate said when she found me, I was... catatonic, I guess. Like one of those seizures where the person is just really still, you know?”

Isaac's mouth falls open. “You're very nonchalant about all of this, do you know that? Why aren't you in a hospital?”

“Because I have to be nonchalant or else I really would go crazy. If I went to a hospital, they'd just call me crazy and lock me up somewhere. That isn't going to fix this. I know, in my heart, that I'm not crazy. Something is just... wrong. But not with me. With the world.”

“And you're going to fix it, are you? Are you a superhero?” 

“If not me, then who?” I ask, throwing my arms up in the air. “Who else can fix it when the rest of you are carrying on like you don't see that everything is all wrong?”

“I guess the rest of us don't see it like you do. How do you know you're so right about this?”

“I just do, okay? None of this makes sense. I'm positive I'm not going insane. So, the only other explanation is that the world is wrong. I have to believe that.”

I don't sound desperate. I sound resolute, and I suppose that's why Isaac doesn't argue any further. I know I still haven't fully won him over, but he's willing to humor me just a bit longer.

“I just can't be that convinced. I don't see it the way that you do.”

“Tell me your world makes sense with Taylor gone. I dare you.” It's a low blow, but I know it will shut him up. “And speaking of that, his death itself makes no sense. The way it happened, I mean. How can you just accept that? Who was in the car with him, Ike?”

“I don't know. I guess I haven't... tried to figure that out. Or thought much about it.”

“That's all the proof I need that this world is wrong. You know that neither of us would just accept that when it makes no sense. Something is very wrong here, and I have to keep trying to figure out what.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I really don't know. I thought I had a grasp on how these visions worked, but then that slipped away from me again. If I could just figure that out and somehow get back in time to fix this... That's the best answer I've got right now.”

“It's not much to go on.”

“No. It's not,” I reply, stuffing the last of the sandwich in my mouth. “But it's all I've got. Do you understand how desperate I am? I can't just let this go on without trying. I can't go on in this world.”

Isaac nods. “Okay. If that's what you want, I can't stop you from... doing whatever you're going to do. You're not wrong that everything here doesn't really make sense.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. I just have to figure out how to control the visions again. I don't trust myself to drive, though, what with my tendency to black out now. So if you want to humor me, could you take me to the office?”

“What are you planning to do, anyway? Hold a séance? Indian tribal dances?”

“Something musical, yes. But I'm pretty sure dancing is _not_ the way to bring Taylor back. Not my dancing, at least.”

Ike laughs at that and it's a big relief. Things were getting tense, so I'm glad to break that tension somewhat. If he wasn't convinced that he needed to help me out, he's relaxed enough now to go along with my plan. 

“Alright, come on,” he says. “I don't know what you're going to do, but I might as well help.”

He pulls out his keys and I follow him out of my house and into his car. We're both pretty quiet during the drive to the office. There's not much I can say to explain what I'm going to do – as if I'm even sure what it is – so we just make a little bit of small talk and try to keep things light.

When we arrive at the office, we both sit in the car for a moment. I don't know what Ike is thinking, but I'm just trying to get my nerve up for this. I don't know what's going to happen, but I've got to act like I do if I'm going to get him to go along with this. I take a deep breath and try to look like I know what I'm doing. I've never been good at that, because let's face it-–usually I have no clue. But I've got to try now.

I step out of the car and Ike follows me. Once we're in the office, I head straight to the studio, and that's where my resolution falters a bit. I think Ike can sense my hesitance and he clears his throat to get my attention.

“I'm gonna go out in the main office while you do whatever it is you're gonna go in here. Just, umm, yell if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, then offer him a smile. “Thanks for doing this.”

“I don't even know what I'm doing, but you're welcome.”

He's out of the room before I can admit that I don't know what I'm doing either. I sit down at the piano and pull out the wedding invitation. I take my time smoothing it out on the piano's stand, trying to calm my nerves during the time that takes. I let my mind drift, giving in to that hazy feeling that plagues it. I can't quite feel or see Taylor yet, but I know it won't be long.

Here goes nothing.


	13. Save the Date

_June 6, 2007_

This time the vision comes on easier. I've barely begun tapping at the keys, trying to remember the melody I came up with the other day, when everything blurs and the room seems to fade away. I don't know where I am at first. I'm drifting toward the unknown again.

Eventually, things start to solidify around me and form a picture that I recognize. I'm in the office, which is assembling itself before my eyes bit by bit, but I'm not in the rehearsal space anymore. I'm sitting at my desk, but it's like I'm watching from outside myself at the same time. Like a dream, but somehow different.

Taylor is there too, sitting at his desk, and the tension in the room is palpable. I wonder if this scene is taking place before or after the ones I've seen already. A quick glance at the corner of my computer's screen tells me that it's June 6. Just a few days after what what should have been my first wedding anniversary, but I can't imagine there was any celebration.

I'm not sure whether to speak first, or leave that up to Taylor. Luckily-–or perhaps not-–he spares me from that. “So, have a nice weekend?”

His voice isn't sarcastic. He's honestly asking me that, as though I might actually have plans. I try to make up something believable. “Umm... I guess. Just sat around the house.”

“You and Kate didn't go out?”

I blink a few times and wonder if I've heard him right. “Why would we go out?”

“It was your first wedding anniversary, Zac. You should have done something special. Do I have to teach you everything about marriage?”

“I'd say I'm generally trying not to follow your lead when it comes to marriage,” I reply, but my tone is fairly lighthearted. 

It's like I'm inside my thoughts and not inside them at the same time. Somehow this entire scene makes sense to me and doesn't make sense at all, at the same time. I'm not nearly as in control of my actions as I was the first time, either, which is a bit troubling.

“I'm just saying, you gotta do something nice for anniversaries. Take her out to dinner, buy her something expensive-–anything like that,” Tay replies, and I realize he is honestly trying to offer me advice. 

Have I fallen into yet another alternate universe where my marriage didn't end? 

“I guess I'll do that next time,” I finally manage to stutter out.

“Is something wrong, Zac?” Taylor asks.

I don't even know how to reply to that, but I manage to say, “No, not really. Just... thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

I spin around in my chair to finally face him. “About us. About how long it's been since we... you know.”

He nods. “Yeah, I know. But I thought that was for the best. Didn't you?”

“I'm not sure what I think anymore,” I reply, and it's more truthful than he could possibly know. “I just miss you.”

“I miss you too, but...” he trails off, and he squints his eyes like he's trying to think of the right thing to say. “You know I'm still here.”

“But not the way I want you to be,” I reply.

He slides his desk chair toward mine and places his hand on my thigh. “I could be here that way if you wanted. I shouldn't, but when has that ever stopped me before?”

I can't help but chuckle at that because it's so true. Taylor never says no to the things he wants. He always lets himself have whatever it is he desires. He leans in and presses his lips to mine, silencing my laugh. I hope we're alone in the office, but at the same time, I really don't care. I need him close to me like this. I need this. I grab a fistful of his hair and pull him closer, until he's practically in my lap.

I don't want to stop kissing him – not now, not ever. But he pulls away from me, cupping my face in his hands and smiles at me. That smile feels almost as good as kissing him, so I can accept the trade off.

“How about we get together again, just you and me?” he asks.

I nod. “Of course.”

“Next week,” he says. “Monday night. I've gotta spend the weekend with Nat, but Monday I'll be free to spend with you. We'll make it a night in, just you and me all alone. How does that sound?”

I nod again, not trusting myself to actually say any words. I'm smiling ear to ear, smiling so hard I can feel it. Tay leans in and presses his lips against mine again.

My eyes are closed, but I can still feel everything starting to fade away. I'm floating again. I try to hold on tighter to Taylor, as if that might somehow stop the inevitable. But of course it doesn't. I feel myself being pulled away from him, every little detail of the moment being ripped from my senses.

“Zac? Zac!”

The next thing I see is the fluorescent studio lights burning into my eyes and Isaac standing over me, with the same look of fear and concern that Kate wore when she interrupted my vision. I scowl up at him. “Was that really fucking necessary?”

“Well, you've been in here forever and I didn't know what was going on. You were playing the piano for a while, but I got worried when that stopped.”

“How long was I out for?”

Isaac shrugs. “I'm not sure. Maybe thirty minutes?”

“It didn't feel like that long,” I remark, slowly pulling myself from the floor. “So that's pretty much in keeping with how it's been. And let me guess, I looked--”

“Completely still and frozen in place, yeah. That's really freaky to see even when I've had it described to me.”

“I figured. Sorry about that.”

“So what happened? From your point of view, I mean.”

I try to call it all back to mind, even though I can feel it slipping away. “Well, I did it again, I guess. I don't know, it's been kind of different each time. This time it was a lot more like a dream, but the kind you're in control of. A lucid dream, you know? But not, because I'm sure I wasn't just asleep.”

“You didn't look like you were asleep, that's for sure,” Isaac replies, nodding. He's still with me. That's good, but I have a feeling I'm going to lose him soon.

“Okay. Well, if I accept what happened in that vision as... true, I guess you'd say, then this world is definitely _not_ true. I mean, Taylor was there. It was just before his accident, I guess, but he was talking like me and Kate were still together. Why would he do that?”

“Why do you assume the vision is true, though?”

“Because nothing else makes sense!” I'm shaking and I have to give myself a minute to calm down before I speak again or I'm afraid I might punch a hole through something. Possible Ike's face. Something is starting to come together in my mind, but I can't quite see the full picture yet. I turn back to Ike. “When did you say Taylor died? What day?”

“June 11.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll through the calendar to look at the month of June. Just as I figured, that's the night Taylor promised me a night in the studio together. The night he died. I feel my legs give way and slowly I fall to the floor. It's not like before, though. It's not another vision. 

Ike is by my side in an instant, hauling me back up. “What is it? What's going on?”

“I was there, Ike. I was fucking there,” I stutter out. “I was there the night he died.”

Everything makes sense now. Actually, it makes less sense. But I know I'm getting closer. The missing puzzle piece-–the person driving Tay's car. It was me. I was there. I still don't know what all this means, but I think I'm getting there. My vision blurs again, and Isaac holds tight to keep me from falling over again. I'm not drifting away on another vision, though. I'm just too overwhelmed by all of this.

“That's ridiculous, Zac. You couldn't have been there.”

I roll my eyes and growl. “Then who was driving the car? You agreed with me that that doesn't make sense. Now I've found an explanation that does, so like hell I'm giving up on believing it.”

Isaac starts to protest but I can see his resolve crumbling away. “Okay. But so what? You know it, but what can you do about it?”

My stomach drops. There's nothing I can do. He's gone and I'm back here, in this reality. I've never controlled the visions before, aside from allowing myself to give in and let them happen. Why should this be any different? Just because I know the truth now, it doesn't mean I've gained a new super power.

Or does it? That tell-tale throb at my temples is back and I can feel my vision starting to fade away. Maybe all I needed was to realize the truth. The truth will set you free or whatever, I guess. Maybe the truth will lead me back to Taylor for good. Maybe I can save him.

My legs give way again-–I'm really getting sick of that-–and Isaac is by my side, pulling me up. “No. Leave me alone. I have to do this. Don't interrupt me again or I swear to you, I'll be short another brother.”

He heeds my words and backs away. That's the last thing I see before he fades from sight, along with everything else in the room.


	14. Perfectly In Sync

_June 11, 2007_

I'm outside the office. It's nighttime and I don't have to guess what day it is. The nervous tingle in my spine says it all. This is it. This is the day-–or rather, the night-–when everything changes.

I'm so nervous that my key nearly falls out of my hand twice and I only just barely manage to get it in the lock at all. I don't know what I'll find inside. Isaac told me that Taylor and I had a fight that night, but who knows how it actually happened in this version of events. Maybe we didn't have a fight at all. Maybe I could prevent the fight. Maybe he'll decide not to show up and just stay at home. Given the quietness of the office, I'm inclined to think that's what happened.

I fumble my way through the hallways, turning on lights as I go. I check every room, but there's no sign of Taylor at all. Nothing to suggest he's been here and nothing to suggest that he will be here. It's just as I figured, and it's certainly not the first time he's let me down. 

Somehow, I'm a jumbled up mixture of disappointed, relieved and worried. If he isn't here, maybe he's sitting at home, safe and sound. Which means he's let me down and chosen to keep his distance from me. On the other hand, maybe he's out driving, just seconds away from wrapping his car around that tree.

With that horrible thought in mind, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and dial his number. It rings a dozen times before going to voicemail and I'm too mixed up to even leave him a message. I consider sending him a text, but I don't even know what to say aside from the obvious-–“where the hell are you?” If he isn't answering my calls, he isn't going to answer my texts either. 

So that's it, then. He's either ditched me, or he's dead already. I haven't been able to stop it after all.

There's a couch in the studio and all I want to do is curl up on it and cry. But it seems like, after all of this, after everything that's happened, will happen, is happening, I just can't. I don't have any tears. So I just sit there and stare at the wall. I don't even know how long I've been there when I finally hear it--the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Loud, stumbling footsteps. 

Taylor usually doesn't make that much noise, but I have no doubt it's him. I pull myself up and try to straighten out my clothes and hair so that maybe I don't look like such a mess. He stumbles into the room moments later and leans against the door frame, a goofy smile on his face. The smile falls when he gets a good look at me, though. I must really look awful.

“I'm sorry, Zac,” Taylor slurs out, immediately revealing that he's had a bit to drink. He pouts at me. “You know me, I'm never on time for anything...”

“I thought you weren't coming,” I admit, deciding to pout a little bit too. “If I'd known you were going to be in this shape, I'd have _hoped_ you weren't coming.”

He slinks across the room – the only man I've ever seen capable of _slinking_ across a room like that, even when drunk – and throws himself onto the couch next to me. He's so close that I can smell the beer on him. “I just... had a few drinks. Lost track of time. I wasn't going to stand you up, though.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” I point out, scooting away from him.

He follows me. “But not this time. I wanted to see you – _want_ to see you. I'm sorry.”

“So why are you drunk?” I ask.

His head falls and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush back the piece of hair that covers his eyes. “It's been so long, Zac. I don't know... I was nervous, I guess. Is that stupid?”

“Kind of,” I reply. “It's just me. You don't need to impress me or anything.”

I can't believe how easily I'm accepting his stupid excuse and forgiving him. I just want to be near him again. I just want him in my life again, for good. If that makes pushing my anger down and pretending that I'm okay with whatever he's done, then so be it.

“Forgive me?” He asks, glancing up at me with those sad blue eyes. 

“Of course.”

He smiles again, that famous smile I missed so much, and he pulls me in close for a kiss. He's tentative, though, I can feel his hesitance. Maybe he _was_ nervous. Maybe he's telling the truth. Or maybe he's starting to feel wrong about us again. I don't want to give him that chance. I don't want to give him a chance to think about this and back out. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him back with all the strength I've got. 

He doesn't protest when I deepen the kiss, my tongue probing deep into his mouth. So I take another risk and shove him back on the couch until he's lying down and I'm on top of him, our bodies stretched out together, touching from head to toe. It's hard to ignore the stale taste of beer and cigarettes in his mouth, but nothing is going to stop me now. Not now that I've finally got my Taylor back. I'm not letting him go.

He kisses me back feverishly, matching my moves exactly. Our bodies are perfectly in sync and I love knowing that we're like that. That we just know each other that well. His hips buck up against mine, rubbing his hardness against my thigh. I wiggle my hips a bit so that we're lined up together, my dick pressing against his so he knows that I want this just as much as he does.

That's all the encouragement he needs, I guess, because in seconds he's fumbling with the hem of my shirt, trying to pull it over my head. I lean up and help him out, feeling myself blush as he blatantly stares me down. In any reality, I don't remember the last time I was this naked in front of him, and I've never been comfortable with the way I look. Taylor knows that, though, and he always tries to reassure me that he thinks I'm beautiful. I don't see it, but I'll gladly accept the look he's giving me as proof that he does.

We managed to shed the rest of our clothes quickly, and I feel better about my body once I've got him stripped down to his bare skin beneath me. It's hard to think about my own insecurities when all I want to do is stare at him. I almost wouldn't even mind if we just laid like this for the rest of the night, but there's a part of me that wants more and I know Taylor does too. His arms and legs are both wrapped around me, pulling me closer to him. 

“My pants pocket,” he mumbles, and it takes me a minute to figure out what he means.

I pry myself from his grip just enough to reach for his discarded pants in the floor. Sure enough, there's a small bottle of lube tucked into the pocket. I don't have to ask what he brought that for. I climb back onto the couch with him and pour a little of the lube onto my hand, enjoying the way his eyes light up and follow my every move. 

He nudges his hips upward, toward my hand. But I decide to tease him a little bit first. I want to make this last. So no matter how much he begs, no matter how much he tries to impale himself on my fingers, I'm going to take my time. Finally, when I think he can't take the torture anymore, I ease one finger inside him, enjoying the contrast between his warm skin and the cold lube. The way he moans tells me he's enjoying it too. 

“More,” he just barely manages to whisper, his voice raspy and breathy.

I comply. I may say that Taylor's the one who always gives me what I want, but it isn't true. I'm at his beck and call more often than not, even when I'm the one on top. If he asks for more, I'll give him more. When I slip a second finger inside, he doesn't moan – he sighs. It's like he's been waiting for this and finally it's arrived and taken a terrible weight off his shoulders. I feel the same way, but he'll never know just how much of a relief it is for me.

I would be happy just to get Taylor off, but soon he snakes his hand down and wraps it around my dick. I'm as hard as possible anyway, but it's nice to know he's at least thinking of my pleasure for once. He gives it a few nice, hard strokes, then lets go. I would be disappointed, but in seconds he's wrapping his legs tighter around my hips and urging me closer. He isn't subtle at all. I know exactly what he wants.

I withdraw my fingers and swiftly replace them with my cock. We both moan at the same time, our voices in perfect harmony. I'd find that a little funny if I weren't focused on just how good it feels to be inside him again. I know and I love every inch of his body, and there's nothing I want more than to be pressed up against him now, his hips bucking upwards to meet mine.

The way Taylor's squirming beneath me, I know I'm not going to last very long, and I don't think that he is either. He wraps his hand around his dick and strokes himself to the same rhythm that I'm fucking him. I can't help but stare down dumbly at him. It almost feels like he's putting on a show for me, the way he's touching himself so expertly and moaning so loudly. But I don't mind; he's just theatrical like that all the time. Anyway, I have no doubt that I'm making him feel that good.

Unfortunately, all his theatrics have the effect of pushing me over the edge even faster. Maybe that was his intention all along. I squeeze my eyes shut so I'm just focusing on the way he feels and not the porn star like show he's putting on beneath me. I'm trembling all over and I start to worry that my arms won't continue to hold me up. Bright lights and colors flash in front of my eyelids as I come, and sure enough, I do lose my balance and tumble down on top of Taylor, just as he reaches his own orgasm. He moans dramatically as he shoots his load onto my stomach, and I don't quite have the heart to be upset about the mess, considering what I've done to him.

I kiss his cheek before jumping up to grab a tissue. There aren't any in the studio, so I throw my underwear and pants back on before heading down the hallway to the bathroom. I clean myself up quickly, not even bothering to look in the mirror and see just how disheveled I look. I just want to hurry up and get back to Taylor so we can spend the rest of the night together.

When I walk back into the studio, he's still sprawled out across the couch, his long limbs pointing in every direction. He doesn't move when I enter the room, or when I try to nudge him aside to sit down on the couch with him. He just lets out a loud snore and wrinkles his nose as though, despite his sleep, he knows there's something trying to annoy him. 

It's then that I realize he must be even more drunk than I thought. That's the only time he ever passes out so quickly after sex. Whenever we have lots of time alone like this, he always wants to cuddle. He's kind of a romantic like that. Except when he's drunk. Then it's all but impossible to wake him. 

“Taylor. Wake up.” I nudge his shoulder hard, then give his face a light slap – just enough to rouse him, but hopefully not enough to make him angry. I know we can't spend the entire night at the studio. That's just going to look suspicious. But I can't let him drive home. 

So, _this_ is how it happens. If I get to drive him home, then he won't be driving drunk. I can save him. I shake him a little harder and call his name again. “Taylor. Wake the fuck up, now. We have to go.”

He grunts something that he probably thinks is a word and wiggles around a bit before finally opening his eyes and looking at me with annoyance. “What? You woke me up.”

“That's what I was going for.”

“Why?” he asks, pouting.

I roll my eyes. “Because we can't stay here all night. I gotta get you home and back in bed, okay?”

“I can get myself home,” he replies, pushing me away and struggling to sit up.

“No, I really don't think you can,” I reply. Before he can argue any more, I grab his pants and fish his keys from the pocket. I'm stronger than him, even when he's not falling down drunk, so I'm confident he's not getting them back without a fight. A fight which he will lose.

“Ugh, fine,” he finally relents, but rolls his eyes to let me know that he doesn't really agree with me. But that's okay with me. He doesn't have to agree as long as he lets me keep him from doing something really stupid.

I have to help him to his feet, though, and it takes both of us to get his clothes back on. If he'd just wear a few less layers, and pants his actual size, this would be a lot less difficult. I feel silly being angry about such minor inconveniences. All that matters is getting him safely home. Once we're both dressed and about as presentable as we're going to get, I wrap my arm around his waist to keep him steady and guide him out of the office.

It's a difficult walk, but that's okay. We'll be fine. Everything will fine. I have to keep telling myself that, but I really do believe it. I'm in control of the situation now, and I can keep anything bad from happening. I hoist Taylor into the passenger seat and put his seat belt on. He's asleep again before I've even opened the driver's side door. I take a long, deep breath to calm myself, and then slowly back his car out of the parking lot.

A million thoughts run through my mind on the drive home. He lives farther away from the office than I do, way out in the country, but that's okay. It's a nice night for a long drive and despite my racing mind, I do feel a sense of calmness washing over me. I'm still a little angry with Taylor, though, for the way he nearly stood me up and then showed up drunk. In fact, the more I think about that, the more upset I get. But I try to tell myself that everything is going to be okay.

Taylor stirs in his seat. “Hey, look where we are.”

I realize that without thinking about it, I've chosen the route that will lead us down the very road he died on in that other reality. It sends a chill down my spine just to think about it, but it's too late to go back down a different road now, and I don't relish the idea of explaining that to Taylor. So I just have to go on and keep telling myself that things will be okay.

“Let's pull over.”

From the corner of my eyes, I can see Taylor straining to reach me, his hand snaking across the console to touch my thigh. That touch would normally excite me, but now it only makes my stomach turn. “Taylor, stay in your seat, okay?”

“What? Don't you want me? Sure seemed like you wanted me earlier...”

He's trying to sound seductive, I'm sure, but he only sounds drunk, and it only makes me angrier. “What about you? You had to get drunk to want me.”

“That's not true.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling my blood boil. “It sure seems that way.”

He ignores my warning and continues to lean across the car to get closer to me. I just hope he keeps his seat belt on. “Zac, I'm sorry. I just... I'm just an idiot. I was nervous and guilty and... damn it, I love you, okay?”

It's not like we haven't said those words to each other before. Of course we have. But I've never heard him say it with the kind of desperation and longing that he just said it. I've never believed it that much, and I can't stop myself from looking at him. I have to see it in his eyes, too. 

“I love you, too, Taylor.”

“Zac, watch the road!”

Everything from there on out seems to be in fast forward. I already know what I'm going to see when I look back at the road. I've veered off to the right and it doesn't matter how hard to I try to correct it or slam on the breaks, we're headed straight for that damn tree. All I can do is brace myself for the impact. I reach down to my lap and grab Taylor's hand as the gap between us and death closes.

Somehow, the impact doesn't hurt as much as I expect. I can't really feel anything other than Taylor's hand in mine, but I can hear the squealing tires, the awful sound of the impact itself like a gunshot, and then a thousand pieces of glass shattering all around me. 

And I can't move.

It's not that I'm stuck in the car, although may be true as well, but I can't even feel my body. I'm willing it to move with all my might, but it just won't listen to me. It takes everything in me to slowly turn my head toward Taylor, and I can only barely see him through my blurry vision. He looks terrified, and I can see his face twist into a scream, but I can't hear it.

My eyes close against my will and everything seems to be fading to black, all my sense fading away. My last thought is that this is not how it was supposed to happen at all.


	15. Waking Up

_August 10, 2007_

I wake to the sound of a piano. No, not a piano. A keyboard. It's a little tinny and electronic sounding, but the person playing it knows what they're doing. The tune is familiar, but I can't quite put a name to it. I lay with my eyes closed, just enjoying the soft, soothing melody for a moment before worrying about where I am or who is playing for me.

Something in me clicks, though, when the mystery keyboard player begins to hum along with the song. I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel too heavy. It feels like I might have to use my fingers to physically pry my eyes open, except I can't quite feel my hands. There's just a dull tingly feeling where they ought to to be, but gradually I gain control over them. One finger at a time, I begin to wiggle them, tapping them along the stiff, scratchy sheets to the beat of the song.

Suddenly, the music stops. There's the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back and footsteps rushing to my side. “Zac. Are are you awake? Can you hear me?”

I would know that voice anywhere. I struggle to open my eyes again to confirm that it's really him, and finally they cooperate. Light rushes in and threatens to blind me, but there he is, blocking out the awful fluorescent glow. Taylor. My Taylor.

I hear him calling for a nurse, but I can't figure out why. I try to talk, but I can't seem to find my voice. Nurses swarm around me and my eyelids close again of their own accord. There's just too much going on around me and I don't understand a bit of it. Finally, my eyes open and focus on the only person who matters.

“Georgia,” I manage to say, and my voice is a hoarse sound, barely above a whisper. I wouldn't even have recognized it as my own voice if I hadn't felt my lips move.

“What?” Tay asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “The song? Are you talking about the song? Figures. You wake up after two months and all you want to talk about is music.”

Two months? Wake up? I have no clue what he's talking about until I allow myself to look around the room I'm in. It's a hospital. I'm in a hospital bed, with all sorts of nurses and a doctor milling around, fiddling with the equipment around me and attached to me. And Taylor's still by my side, holding my weak hand.

Something seems familiar about all of this, but I can't quite figure it out. The feeling of Taylor's hand in mine... the song... but I can't place it. It's all just out of my grasp, buried somewhere in my brain that I just can't get to. I squeeze Taylor's hand as hard as I can, which isn't very hard at all, willing him to understand that I don't understand a thing at all that's happening around me. He frowns and opens his mouth to speak.

“His vitals look fine for now, but we'll need to do a few more tests later to see where he is,” the doctor says, interrupting whatever Taylor was about to say. “We can give you a little time alone with him, if you'd like. You can contact the rest of the family any time.”

Taylor nods. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The doctor makes a few more notes on my chart and then both he and the nurses leave the room. All the din of a moment before is gone, and it's only me and Taylor, staring blankly at each other. Finally, I summon up all my strength and ask him, “What happened? Why am I here?”

“You don't remember anything?” he asks, obviously trying to judge how much he has to tell me.

I shake my head, and the movement makes me dizzy. “No... I don't know. I'm not sure what I remember.”

I'm sure that makes no sense to him, but he's willing to accept that I'm more than a little confused right now. He nods his head and rakes his free hand through his hair before bringing it to rest on top of the hand he's still holding. “Okay. Umm. We had a car accident, Zac. You were... you were driving my stupid, drunk ass home. And I guess I distracted you. I didn't mean to, but it all happened so fast and then we were...”

I nod. I remember all that, but it's like watching a movie. It happened to some other Zac, some fictional Zac, not to me. It feels like there are a million different versions of events, a million different realities, swimming around in my head and I can't latch onto which one is real and true.

“It's not your fault,” I reply, and it's the one thing of which I'm sure.

Taylor shakes his head. “No. It was my fault. I shouldn't have... been drunk like that.”

“Well, I can't argue with that,” I manage to reply, but I can't seem to smile or laugh like I want to, to let him know it's okay.

Taylor's eyes cloud over and he doesn't laugh at my joke. There's something he isn't telling me and I don't know what it is. I'm still missing so many memories and so many pieces of what happened. All I really want to go is go back to sleep, because even if I was apparently in a coma for two months, it certainly doesn't feel like I've gotten any rest. Everything aches, especially my head – although I suspect that's partially due to my brain going at a million miles an hour trying to process everything that's happened and happening.

“I think... I think I need to sleep for a while,” I say.

Taylor squeezes my hand. “Okay. You want me to go call Mom and Dad? Or Kate? I took the, uh, night shift this time, but it's pretty early morning now so I might not wake them up.”

“Nah, let us all get a little more sleep,” I reply, and he yawns at the end of the sentence, too. I wonder if he's slept at all that night. I've got a feeling, from the bags under his eyes, that he hasn't slept through a night in a long time.

He finally concedes and lets go of my hand, giving me one last sad smile before returning to his chair and leaving me to sleep. I've still got a few tubes and things attached to me, but mostly I'm free to curl up on my own without anything pulling me back. The hospital bed isn't comfortable at all, but it still doesn't take me long to drift off.

My dreams are completely beyond description, just a swirling mass of picture after picture that makes no sense at all. Flashes and scenes that might be real and might just be dreams pass before my eyes. I don't know how long I've slept when a doctor finally rouses me from my rest, but I've got a feeling it wasn't very long at all. 

The doctor runs me through a battery of tests, only half of which I understand the purpose of, to figure out exactly what damage I've sustained in three months. He skirts over the issue of just how badly I was injured, and I'm not sure I want to know anyway. As far as I can tell, from his reactions, I'm doing a lot better than he expected. My voice is still hoarse, but it seems to be cooperating with me. I don't really feel up to walking anywhere, but I can pull myself up in the bed and move my legs. The doctor assures me that I've got no permanent nerve damage – I just need a little time for my muscles to catch up with me and do what I tell them to do. As far as comas go, two months is long enough for some things to start deteriorating, but not so long that I'm going to have to relearn how to do everything. That's a relief.

Of course, the biggest question on my mind, aside from all my missing memories, is the music. Will I ever be able to play the drums again? The doctor laughs at my melodramatic question. Of course. If my mind can remember how, and I assure him it could never forget, no matter what it's been through, then my muscles will follow along in no time.

After I'm through with all the tests, he lets Taylor back in the room with me. I have no clue where he's been gone all this time, but I am acutely aware that it's lunch time. And I'm desperately craving some real food. Taylor's hiding something behind his back when he walks back into the room, which he pulls out and sets on the bed's tray with an impish smile.

“I brought your favorite, and I don't care if the doc gets mad,” Taylor says, pulling a few wrapped items out of what I suddenly recognize as a takeout bag from Taco Bueno. “Just eat quick, before they notice that I didn't bring the cafeteria food they sent me down to get.”

“I'm sure I'm going to regret this later, but fuck it,” I reply, digging into the taco he's handed me.

We eat in silence for a while. I wonder if Taylor has as many questions running through his mind as I do, but I figure that isn't possible. He isn't the one whose mind is all jumbled up. The doctor assured me that it would all come back in a few days and that short term memory loss is pretty common with the kind of trauma I've been through. I didn't bother telling him that I haven't lost all my memories; I just have too many of them to figure out which really happened.

But maybe Taylor can help me figure all that out. I wait until he's finished with his food before I push mine aside-–I wasn't really able to eat much of it anyway without my throat burning like a motherfucker, which is probably why Taylor wasn't supposed to give me anything but bland hospital food. I don't tell him that, though, because I know he was just trying to do something for me. So, when he's done eating, I finally decide to start asking him questions.

“Tay... what really happened the night of the accident? I kind of remember it, but only in bits and pieces.”

He gulps and I can tell he doesn't want to tell me, but that's okay. He will. “Well, we made plans to meet at the office... we hadn't done anything like that for a long time, and uh, I got a little drunk before I got there. Okay, a lot drunk. And then we... do you remember that part or do I need to draw a diagram?”

I try to laugh but it comes out more like a strangled cough. “No, I'm pretty sure I remember how that works.”

“Good to know,” he replies, but he doesn't look that amused. “So you were upset about me being drunk, I guess, and you decided to drive me home. I kinda blacked out on some of this too, to be honest. But I think we were arguing in the car and you got distracted and ran off the road.”

“Into a tree.”

He nods. “You remember that.”

I remember way more than he knows, but at least now I know I can focus on what I know is true. “Yeah, sort of. So, it fucked me up pretty bad, huh?”

“You could say that,” he replies. “I had some cuts and scrapes from the windshield, but you took the broadside of a tree branch to the side of your head. You're lucky there wasn't brain damage.”

“With me, how would they be able to tell the difference?”

Finally he laughs, but it passes quickly. “All the paramedics and the cops who were there, they kept saying it looked like you had purposely steered your side of the car into the tree, though. Like you were trying to kill yourself. But you weren't... were you?”

I can see the tears welling up in his eyes, but he's trying to keep from crying them. “No, I wasn't. I promise.” And I wasn't. I was trying to save him, and that's a very important distinction.

“Okay. Good. That's good.” 

I could tell there was more that Taylor wanted to say, but he was holding himself back. I wasn't going to let him. I had to keep pushing. “What about... before the accident? We hadn't done that for a long time, had we?”

He shakes his head, then looks down at his feet. “No. Not for a long time. There was once... since your wedding, but that was it. Until that night.”

I nodded. Things were starting to make a little bit of sense. Memories were flooding back to me, and slowly, I was beginning to pick out the ones that were real. We hadn't been together since my wedding. Just as I had hoped, it had been the turning point. Things were normal, mostly. There was just one thing I didn't understand. Why did I also remember things a different way? Why did it surprise me so much to wake up in a world where Taylor was alive? 

And what about the song he had played for me just before I woke up?

“Taylor... why were you playing to me?”

He blushes. “Oh, the doctors kept telling us to talk to you. That on some level, you could hear us even if you weren't able to respond. That it would help. I figured if talking could help a little, music could work miracles.”

“And the song?”

“Oh, that? Today?” He waves his hand dismissively. “That's just something I was working on... about Natalie.”

He's lying to me. I can always tell when he's lying, yet he does it anyway. But I don't have time to call him out on it. A nurse knocks on the door and tells me that my wife and family are here, and soon they're all rushing into the room, ignoring her warning that only two at a time are allowed in. They bombard me with questions and chatter on about everything I've missed, but my mind is swimming and I can't really process a word of it.

I should be happy. I'm alive and relatively healthy for someone who just came out of a coma, and I've got my family all around me. But I'm not. Somehow, I've still lost Taylor.


	16. Horses, Not Zebras

_August 17, 2007_

Despite the fact that I feel fine, the doctors insist I have to stay in the hospital for more tests and other assorted medical bullshit. But, since I barely have a GED, I'm not exactly in any position to argue with them. So, I let myself be poked, prodded and led around the hospital like a child. It's demeaning, in a way, but a part of me doesn't mind. A part of me is just resigned to suffering in one way or another.

And okay, maybe I don't feel fine. 

Everything aches, not the least of which is my heart. My ankles are weak, which has made walking especially fun. The doctor tells me that I sprained both of them badly, but somehow didn't break any bones, despite being pinned into the car. And I've never had worse headaches in my life, which isn't exactly surprising, considering I've also never had a traumatic brain injury before. Still, the therapists I've seen every day assure me that my speech and memory are way ahead of what they would expect. 

I don't bother telling them about the _other_ memories I have, the ones that I suppose didn't actually happen.

After a week of all this physical therapy and testing, they send me to a psychologist, to see how I'm progressing emotionally. Evidently, most people don't cope very well with coming out of a coma. I can only imagine. 

The psychologist, Dr. Ramos, goes through the same litany of stupid questions that every other nurse, doctor and therapist has asked me in the past week. I can answer all of them with ease-–my name, birth date, what day it is, the names of all my brothers and sisters, and so on. I don't know why they insist on asking the same questions over and over. Don't these people share notes?

“So, Zachary, how do you feel about everything you've been through in the past week?”

I'd rather he stick to the stupid questions that aren't open-ended. “Well, I'm sick of the hospital food, for one. And I'd really like to not sound like I smoke two packs a day. Other than that, things are just peachy.”

Yeah, I'm a sarcastic bastard. It's part of my charm, although I don't think Dr. Ramos finds it very charming. “I meant mentally, emotionally. How are you coping?”

I have to try really hard not to roll my eyes at that. “I'm doing fine, I suppose. I'm not in shock that this happened or anything. Not that I planned it, but... I do remember the accident, so I'm not having trouble processing that.”

“That's good to hear,” he says with a nod, jotting down something on the chart in front of him. “I see you've had little to no permanent brain damage, but it's quite common for coma patients to experience changes in personality. Do you feel like you?”

“That's a strange question. Even if my personality had changed, wouldn't I probably still feel like me? Wouldn't it be the other people around me who would notice the difference?”

“Fair enough. Do you think your family has noticed any changes in you?”

“No, I don't think so. I haven't had much chance to spend time with them between all the tests and therapy and stuff, though.”

That's not totally true. Kate has been by to see me almost every day, and so have Mom and Dad. Ike and the others have been here less frequently. And Taylor? Hardly at all since the day I woke up. It goes without saying that he's the one I miss the most.

“How is the physical therapy going?”

I shrug. “They tell me it's going great, and I suppose it is. I haven't had any trouble with any of the stuff they want me to do. Motor skills in tact, it seems.”

“You don't seem happy about it, though. Why is that?”

“I've just got this... this fog in my brain that won't seem to go away. I think that I remember everything, or enough to function, but things just seem... wrong.”

He nods thoughtfully. “You did damage the part of your brain responsible for storing memories and processing things such as faces, scenes and other stimuli. It's not uncommon to have some confusion, even amnesia, after that type of brain injury.”

“I know all of that, but it still doesn't really explain everything I'm thinking and feeling,” I admit. I'm not sure how much I'm willing to tell this guy, but he seems open enough to listening to me. He doesn't have the kind of judgmental face I assumed a shrink would have.

“Tell me about that. That's what I'm here for. To help you with everything you're thinking and feeling.”

I chew on my bottom lip for a while, trying to figure out the best way to approach this. I decide to go with a not unrelated question. “Do coma patients dream?”

“We don't really know for sure,” he says. “There have been lots of studies. We think that they do, but it's difficult to say for sure. Most of the evidence is anecdotal, and differs from one patient to the next. Do you remember dreaming?”

I shake my head. “I don't know. Maybe. I remember the song my brother played for me. I heard it right before I really woke up. But anything else? I'm not sure. I've got all these... scenes in my head, all these memories that I guess are dreams.”

But I don't think I really believe that. I just want to see what Dr. Ramos will do with . He might be the first person who can offer some scientific, not science fiction, explanation for everything I think I've gone through. He studies me for a moment, before finally replying.

“I suppose it's possible you were dreaming, then. As I said, it varies from one patient to the next. It's not my job to tell you that what you believe yourself to have experienced while in a coma state didn't happen. In your mind, it did. That doesn't make it less real, but it doesn't mean that any of those 'memories' should affect how you act now that you're awake.”

He's got a better grasp on the situation than I expected.

Still, I can't quite believe everything he says. I don't think I was only dreaming. Everything I heard and felt and saw was so real to me, so tangible. It was so real that I couldn't even remember all the memories of the past year that have been flooding back to me in the last few days. It was as if none of this existed at all and the only reality was one in which Taylor had died in that car crash.

That's not to say that that world didn't seem strange and wrong. It did. I had no explanation for why a year was missing from my mind or a driver missing from Taylor's car. Everything seemed to be missing pieces that kept it from entirely making sense, and it was all leading me back here.

So maybe it was a dream, or at least some elaborate trick of my mind. After all, it was a brain injury that put me in that hospital bed. Maybe my fractured mind had to solve some sort of puzzle to put itself back together and wake me up. It seems ridiculous, but so did that time travel theory I had. What's that saying? If you see hoof prints, assume horses, not zebras? The simplest solution is usually the correct one.

And in this case, the simplest solution is that it was all just a dream. Just some crazy coma dream.

Dr. Ramos asks me a few more questions, most of which are pretty easy to answer, then spends a while lecturing me on the sorts of challenges I might expect once I get out of the hospital. It shouldn't be much longer he says, if I keep up this progress, but it's mostly up to my actual physician, not him. And of course, they expect me to keep seeing him even after I'm released just to make sure I'm okay mentally. As if I'm _ever_ okay mentally.

I know I should be happy with the world I've ended up in. I know this is the real world, and the other one was... well, _not_ the real world. And in this world, I've got just about everything I could ask for. Somehow, despite the injuries, I've more or less got my health. I've got my wife. And I've got my brother, the one I thought I had lost forever.

But in a way, I still have lost him. 

And everyone else keeps walking on eggshells around me, like they're waiting for me to snap or something, or like they're not totally convinced that this guy in the scrubs and bandages is really Zac. I don't know who else he could be, though. I feel as much me as I have for the first time in a year, maybe even longer than that. But there are still pieces of me missing, and I think they can see that. I think they can see that the past five years have taken a toll on me and that I'm at some kind of turning point now. 

I think Kate more than anyone else-–except possibly Taylor–-is nervous to be around me. Somehow, I think there's a part of her that knows what has happened between me and Taylor. If she doesn't know, she at least suspects. I guess she's always wondered why I stayed with her when at times, it was so painfully obvious that I wasn't invested in the relationship. And frankly, I'm amazed she's stayed with me through all that, too. Especially now.

After my meeting with Dr. Ramos, I'm sent back to my room for lunch. They've got me on this super strict diet to make sure I don't get sick, since I've spent two months getting all my nutrition through a tube. To say the hospital food sucks is an understatement. If I weren't stuck in these hospital scrubs with no money on hand, I would seriously consider breaking out and heading to the Taco Bueno I know is right down the street.

But I don't. I just shuffle back to my room and plop down on the bed, where my lovely little hospital lunch is already being set out by one of the nurses. 

“What are we having today, Betsy?” I ask, flashing her what I hope is a charming smile.

“You're having chicken noodle and jello,” she replies. “And I've got a hot steak sub waiting at my desk.”

“Oh, was that your sub?” I ask, patting my stomach as though I'm full. “It sure was good...”

She laughs as she finishes setting out my disappointing lunch, then turns to leave. “By the way, your wife left a message that she would be in to visit later. I told her to come on up.”

“Great,” I reply, looking forward to that only slightly more than I'm looking forward to the meal in front of me.

It's not that I don't want to see Kate. It really isn't. But like I said, she has this way of looking at me lately that sets me on edge. At any moment, I'm afraid she's going to admit that she does know the truth about me and Taylor. I can't say where that fear comes from, really. Maybe it was that dream, if that's what it really was, where she knew and she left me. It's irrational to think any of that was or could be real, but I can't shake the feelings that seem to have followed me from the dream to reality. 

I can't shake the feeling that this whole house of cards I've built is going to come crashing down soon. I've already lost Taylor, in a way, so I can only assume Kate will be the next to go. I know it's a pessimistic outlook to take, and I'm usually not a pessimist like that, but I can't help it. Maybe it's a knee jerk reaction to all the people telling me how much of a miracle I am. I just can't believe anything that good is possible. Something has to go wrong to balance it out.

I've just started on my jello-–which is either cherry or puke flavored, it's tough to say--when there's a knock at the open door. It seems like a bit overkill, since I can clearly see her standing there, but like I said, Kate's been walking on eggshells around me lately.

I push the tray of food aside. “Come on in. I was just eating what passes for lunch around here.”

“No good?”

“Nope. Smuggle me in some tacos next time you visit?”

She laughs. “I don't think your doctors would appreciate that.”

“Fuck 'em,” I say, taking one last sip of the nutritional shake thingy they include with each meal. It's a bit chalky, but it's the best part of it all. Underneath the chalky flavor, I think it's actually chocolate, so I can't complain too much.

Kate flinches at my cursing, but doesn't remark on it. She takes a seat from the wall opposite my bed and pulls it up close, but not too close, and we sit together in silence for a while. That's pretty much how it goes between us these days.

Finally, she clears her throat and speaks. “So, the nurse said you probably wouldn't be in here much longer? I mean, she didn't say it in so many words, but that's how she made it sound.”

I nod. “Yeah, I guess so. They can't find any permanent damage from the accident, so they're really just keeping me here to make sure the coma didn't have any lasting effects either. It's just routine bullshit.”

I seem to have developed a serious habit of cursing. Not that I was ever particularly clean mouthed, but I guess my patience is wearing thin these days. I don't like, have never liked, having to cover up my true thoughts and feelings. Saying the opposite of what I really think always bothers me, even when I see the wisdom in doing it. I guess letting myself curse a bit more is one tiny way to rebel against that. Or maybe it's one of those personality changes the doctor mentioned. What-fucking-ever.

“So you'll be back home soon. That's good,” she says. “It'll be weird getting used to you being there again, I think.”

“I imagine it's a lot quieter without me there,” I say with a grin.

“Yeah. But not always in a good way.”

Sensing that it's the right thing to do, I reach out and grab Kate's hand. It takes her a second to relax, probably not expecting me to do that. “You know I love you, right?”

She nods. “I know. I love you, too.”

It's as true now as it's ever been, if not more. I do love her. I just hope that's enough to get us through everything I'm afraid is going to happen once I'm out of this hospital.


	17. Welcome Home

_August 24, 2007_

Finally.

It feels like I've been in this hospital for half my life. It's funny, because I've actually been here for longer than I can even remember. I've only been conscious of two weeks in here, which isn't much at all compared to the previous two months spent in this bed. At least for the last two weeks I've been awake.

But somehow, being awake doesn't actually make a hospital stay any more enjoyable. Go figure.

Needless to say, I couldn't be more excited to finally be getting out of here. Kate decided to stay home and clean-–she claims the house is a mess, but I doubt it-–so I guess they drew straws for who got to come pick me up, and Taylor drew the short one. I've been advised to take it easy and not drive myself around for a while, and I can guarantee that's going to get annoying fast.

In fact, the list of things I can and can't do is so long that I have a feeling it isn't really going to feel like I've left the hospital at all. I'm sure I'll have my family watching over my shoulder at every turn to make sure I'm abiding by the doctor's orders. That will just make it extra fun. 

My last meal at the hospital is a breakfast that actually almost tastes like real food-–biscuits, gravy and sausage with a big glass of orange juice. I asked Betsy if she could see about slipping me some vodka to liven that orange juice up a bit, and she didn't seem to find it very funny. Oh well.

I'm just finishing up my breakfast when Taylor shuffles into the room, barely pausing to knock on the door on his way in. Why do they keep doing that? The door is open nearly all the time; I promise I can see anyone standing on the other side of it. I guess it's some courtesy thing, but it still baffles me.

“Ready to get out of here?”

“You have no fucking idea,” I reply, pushing back the food tray and sitting up in the bed.

Taylor tosses his shoulder bag-–which he likes to remind everyone is not a purse, even though it totally is-–into the chair by my bed and begins to dig through it. “I've got all your stuff here. The clothes you had on in the wreck were pretty much ruined, but I've got your wallet and cell phone. And a change of clothes since I figure you're probably getting sick of those scrubs.”

“Once again, you've read my mind.”

He hands me the clothes and shuts the door to give me some privacy. Then he takes it a step further and actually turns his back to me as though he hasn't seen me without my clothes a million times before. I guess things really are over between us if he can't even look at me while I change clothes. As hurt as I am, I don't have the energy to call him out on it.

“Alright. Let's go.” I grab my wallet and cell phone and tuck them into my pockets. It feels good to wear normal clothes again, that's for sure. 

Taylor grabs his bag and follows me out of the room, keeping a safe distance behind me as I make my way to the nurses' station.

“Hey, Betsy,” I say, leaning over the counter. “Did you hear? They're letting me out today.” 

“I did hear something about that. We're all gonna miss your... charming sense of humor.”

Taylor snorts out a little laugh that he tries to cover up with a cough, and I'm tempted to turn around and kick him. Instead, I just give him a dirty look.

“Well, just sign these papers and we'll let you go. You've already checked in with Dr. Ramos and Dr. Johnston?”

“Yup,” I say with a nod, taking the clipboard from her and scanning over its contents. It's just a bunch of legal stuff, insurance bullshit and all that good stuff. I sign my name to the line on each page. “They said I'm as normal as I'm gonna get, so they can't keep me around any longer. Or something like that.”

As we walk away from the nurses' station, Taylor leans in close to me. “You've really made friends here, huh?”

“I make friends everywhere,” I reply with a grin. “Betsy's just sad I'm not single.”

As soon as I say it, I regret it. Every time Taylor and I talk about my marriage, or his, it causes an argument. Even if it's just a casual conversation, it always devolves into this awkward... thing. We just can't talk about it. If we could get away with pretending neither marriage had ever happened, I think we would. At least, I think I would. I don't know what Taylor wants anymore, but I'm pretty sure it isn't me.

Just as I expect, the ride to my house is full of awkward silence. Even the noise of the radio doesn't fill up the silence sufficiently. It's just this tangible thing between us, this awkward distance that started before the accident, and has only gotten worse afterward.

I remember when Taylor was gone, though. I know it was just a dream, but it feels so real. Even though he's still alive now, he feels just as gone from my life as he did in that dream. I could reach out and touch him right now, and I'd feel him beneath my hand, but I wouldn't really feel him. There would be no closeness between us. 

I would almost rather be dead. 

I'm not going to kill myself, though. The hope that brought me through that dream, that made me wake up and come back into this world, is still with me. The hope that somehow, some way, this can be fixed. I woke up so that I could get my life back. My life has three important things in it – music, Taylor and Kate, in some variation of that order. One of those is missing right now, but I know in time I'll get him back. I have to keep that hope.

It takes me by surprise when I realize that Taylor hasn't taken the right turn to go to my house. Instead, he's heading toward our parents' home. I wonder if he just did it by accident – he lives just a few streets away from them, so maybe instinct took over and he didn't think about where he was going.

“Tay? That's not the way to my house.”

He barely glances over at me. “I know. I told mom I would stop by and pick up the pie she baked for you.”

I roll my eyes. Figures. We'll be lucky if she doesn't keep us there for a full lunch, then send us both home with our arms piled down with pies of every flavor imaginable. It's just a few minutes drive to the house our parents' live in, just barely outside the nearest suburb, set back from the road and surrounded by what passes for a forest here in Oklahoma.

Taylor pulls his brand new car – I guess I totaled the old one – up to the gate slowly and punches in the security code. The gate swings open and I'm surprised to see the driveway full of cars. Taylor made it sound like we were just making a short stop here, but it looks like the entire family has done the same. 

And then I see it. A big flashy banner over the front door, spelling out “WELCOME HOME, ZAC” in huge sparkly letters.

They're throwing me a damn welcome home party.

“You can't actually make me go in there,” I say, crossing my arms and pouting like a child.

“What's the big deal?” Taylor asks, unbuckling himself and grabbing his bag from the back seat. “Did you expect them not to make a fuss about you getting to come home?” 

“I guess you're right, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

Taylor gives me a sympathetic look and for a second, I think he's going to reach for my hand, but then he seems to think better of it. “I know. If you want to fake sick so I have to take you home early, I'll understand.”

Reluctantly, I step out of the car and follow Taylor up the driveway. I can't help the urge to step behind him and hide while he rings the doorbell. The door flies open to reveal Mom, a smile on her face and a streak of flour on her cheek that suggests she has spent the entire day baking. 

“Taylor, you were supposed to call when you left the hospital with him!” She scolds him, but still stands on her tiptoes to hug him.

Before I can figure out a way to make my retreat, she's shoving Taylor aside to get to me. There's really no use fighting it, so I just hug her back and try to make the appropriate noises in response to all her questions and comments about how I'm doing, how much they've all missed me, and so on. Under the best of circumstances, there's no getting a word in with her, and this is definitely a unique sort of circumstance.

Finally, Mom backs away from me and gives me a firm look. “Don't you ever scare us like that again, Zachary. Now, let's go on inside. Everyone's here waiting to see you.”

Just as she said, everyone is indeed waiting for me inside the house. It's a large house, and it still seems filled to the brim with people. I guess that's just because we've got such a huge family. Once you add in our wives, Taylor's three kids and Isaac's new baby, and a handful of other relatives, there's really not much room to breathe or even think, no matter how big the house may be. 

Kate rushes to my side as soon as I walk into the living room, but I can see how she still hesitates before wrapping her arms around me. “You're not mad, are you? We wanted it to be a surprise... that's why I told you I was staying home to clean.”

I shake my head. “No, I'm not mad. Just surprised. So I guess you succeeded.”

There really isn't much time for meaningful conversation after that. Mom has, not surprisingly, prepared a huge meal that can only be likened to the kind of feast she usually lays out for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I guess my return home is a pretty big deal. I don't know why that seems odd to me, but somehow it does. Anyway, we're all sort of spread out around the house, stuffing our faces, so there's really not much conversation happening, aside from a lot of meaningless chit chat. I'm mostly spared from answering any awful questions, aside from a lot of repetitive stuff about how I'm healing and how bad the hospital food was.

After my second piece of pie, eaten in a secluded corner of the living room, I wander back into the kitchen to toss my dish in the dishwasher and find something to drink. I know there's no point in hoping for alcohol, but anything at all would be good right now. I don't even notice until I round the corner that the room isn't empty.

“I know, but how much longer can we delay this album? The fans are getting restless.”

“I don't know if you've noticed, Ike, but our drummer is recovering from a coma. Fuck the fans.”

“I think we've already done enough of that, haven't we?”

“You know what? Fuck it. I don't even care if we put the album out or not.”

I clear my throat to let them know I'm there, since neither of them seems to have noticed. “Glad to know you feel that way.”

“Zac, I didn't--”

I don't stick around to hear the rest of it. I slam my empty plate down on the table and storm out of the room. I'm not really sure where I'm planning to go, since there's really nowhere in the house to hide. Despite the fact that I'm the guest of honor, no one actually seems to notice as I slip through the crowd and up the stairs. I figure if there's one place to hide, it's upstairs in the bedroom Taylor and I used to share.

The room looks almost exactly the same as it did when we lived here, thanks to Mom's nostalgic streak and refusal to accept that her “little boys” have actually grown up. Even the beds are still made and the same Led Zeppelin poster still hangs over mine. Sure, there's a little bit of dust over everything and the closet and drawers are probably empty, but otherwise the room almost looks lived in. It's kind of eerie.

I imagined that everything was suspended in motion like this room, waiting for me to wake up again. But I guess the truth is that I was really just a burden. At least, it sure seems that Isaac and Taylor feel that way, even if they can't agree about what to do with me. I've never felt more like a pawn, being picked up and moved around whichever way they want me to go. Yet, at the same time, I feel like they don't even care at all and wouldn't notice if I wasn't on the game board at all.

I sit down on my old bed, and my mind is filled with memories of the years Taylor and I spent together in this room. Since Isaac was older, he managed to talk our parents into giving him his own room, while the two of us still had to share. But we didn't mind. We were always closer, anyway, so it felt right to keep sharing a bedroom. When our innocent cuddling became less than innocent, we were very thankful for the privacy. I can't help laying back on the bed and letting myself get lost in memories of the shameful things we did in this very bed.

A knock at the door pulls me from my pathetic, self-indulgent thoughts and causes me to quickly sit upright. “Zac? Can we talk?”

“Probably. That seems to be what we're doing right now.”

I don't have to look up to know that Taylor has rolled his eyes at that one. No one seems to like my sense of humor lately.

He sits down on the bed next to me, but keeps his distance. It takes every bit of my self control not to move in closer to him. “Look, what you heard me and Ike talking about... you know we're not making any decisions about the band without you, right?”

“How would I know that? I've been in a fucking coma, Tay. For two months. And damn near another month of everyone treating me like I'm so fragile. So really, it wouldn't surprise me at all if you guys had all kinds of stuff planned without me.”

“You really think we would plot stuff behind your back? Are you that fucking insecure? That needy?”

I can feel my blood boiling. He might be right, but I still don't like the accusations. “Yes, Taylor. That's it. It couldn't possibly be that I feel left out because _I was_. It's hard to leave me in when I'm practically a vegetable. Not that you're paying that much attention to me now, either.”

He smirks. “I knew it. It's about me. You're so hung up on this... this thing we had, that you can't handle the thought that I'm not constantly glued to your side.”

“If that's what you want to believe, then knock yourself out.” 

“Well, it's over between us, okay? It should have been over a long time before it really was. We both know that, but I'm the only one willing to admit it.” He stands up and starts to walk out of the room, then stops and takes one last look back at me. “I would have thought the fact that it almost killed you should have been the first hint that this needed to stop. But I guess you're too stubborn. So I'm saying it for you. We're over, Zac.”

He walks out of the room before I can even think of a reply, leaving me on my old bed, speechless. Once, a little over a year ago, I thought I wanted us to be over. Now I'm not so sure, but it seems I don't even get the choice anymore.


	18. The Craziness In My Mind

_August 29, 2007_

It turns out the doctors were very serious about having me come in for regular visits to check on my progress. I feel like a lab rat when they talk about “my progress,” but nevertheless I know I have to go. I shudder to think what they would do if I missed one of these visits. I'm not really willing to risk it, but it is tempting to just not go.

Since my physical recovery is going well, it's really little more than a routine physical plus a few extra tests and brain scans. Then I get shuffled to a different wing of the hospital to see Dr. Ramos, who is chiefly concerned with things more difficult to quantify and mark off on charts-–all the stuff contained within my mind, but not on any level that can be seen on a brain scan.

Like most doctors offices, even though they know full well to expect me, they still leave me waiting for quite some time before my appointment. It gives me time to think, which I'll admit, is a dangerous pursuit for me. Especially lately.

I've had this strange notion for the past few days-–or, I suppose, since I woke up from the coma-–that I'm two different people. Both of them me, in almost every single way. But their lives, my lives, diverge after my wedding. In one version of events, Taylor and I drifted apart, finally coming back together on the night of the accident. I remember this perfectly well, and this is the version I'm most ready to accept as true. In the other version, huge chunks of time are missing and everything is all hazy and confusing. All I have is the vague sense that Taylor shouldn't be here and Kate should no longer be my wife. It seems like this other version of me is going through a similar, but somehow very different, chain of events.

I don't know what to make of it. It all seems to stem from what I've thought were coma dreams. I tried to discuss those dreams with Dr. Ramos before, but didn't even have the words to describe everything in my mind. I'm still not entirely sure that I have the words. It's all just a fleeting feeling or a passing picture in my mind that's gone before I can quite latch onto it.

Just thinking about it all makes me feel so insane that I have no idea what I can rightfully tell Dr. Ramos without getting myself locked up. Unfortunately, I don't have much more time to consider it. The secretary calls my name and I'm shuffled back into his office with no plan for how to survive the encounter.

“Zachary,” he says as I enter, as though he's surprised to see me. “How are we feeling today?”

I take a seat, buying myself time before answering, “Okay, I suppose. Everything has been a little overwhelming, you know, just trying to get settled back in at home.”

“That's to be expected, of course. No major snags, though?”

“No, everyone has been really understanding,” I say. It's a little bit of a lie, but at least everyone other than Taylor has been okay. They might be walking on eggshells a bit, but I can tolerate that. “We're still pushing to get our next album out soon and go on tour, though.”

Dr. Ramos makes a few notes on his chart, then looks back up at me with interest. “How do you feel about that? Do you feel ready for it? Physically, I don't suppose your other doctors see any reason to advise against it, but I have to make a mental recommendation as well.”

“Right, of course,” I reply. “We're planning a pretty stress free tour, as much as a tour can be. No one wants to push me too hard, but the other doctors are positive about me being able to handle the tour that we have planned. If I can't, I think-–hope-–the fans will understand. Mentally... I think getting back to my music will be the last step in feeling like myself again.”

A complete and utter lie, and I really don't care. Even I'm not dumb enough to tell this shrink that I'm in love with my brother. I can only imagine the hours he'll want to spend studying my mind if he finds out it's _that_ twisted. On the other hand, he may want nothing to do with me at all after that revelation; he'll just send me away and lock me up with the really crazy people. The worst part is that I don't think that being in love with Taylor is the craziest thing about me right now.

I realize I've gone very quiet and Dr. Ramos is just staring at me, waiting for me to continue. But I don't have any more words for him. I've told him everything I want to tell him. I just want this stupid meeting to be over and never to come back here again. No one can fix what's going in my mind, and I don't want them to.

“Zachary? Is there something you're not telling me?”

I blink a few times and try to push my anger down. “No... I was just thinking about the tour...”

“Are you worried about it?” He just has to keep pushing, doesn't he? 

“No. It's fine.”

He scribbles a few notes on his clipboard, and I'd really like to grab it and break it in half. “I see. I sense some other issue is bugging you, though. Would you like to share?”

“No. I would not.”

“Then I'm afraid we're not going to get anywhere. And you should keep in mind, I can make recommendations to the rest of your doctors based on how things go in our appointments. That's not a threat, just a fact. It's in your best interest to be candid with me.”

I sigh. I'm still angry with him, but he's right. I don't want to tell him everything-– _can't_ tell him everything-–but I have to at least pretend to open up. I bite my lip and try to figure out the best way to broach the subject without actually letting him in on all the craziness floating around my mind. “It's just... I can't shake the feeling I got from those dreams, if that's what they were, that I had while I was in the coma. Something feels off, like something about my memory is wrong or something.”

“I see. Do you remember the dreams? It could help to talk about them.”

No, I really don't think it could. “Not exactly. It's all just out of my grasp. It's just a feeling I have, nothing concrete. The dreams were like... an alternate reality. Like I made a few different choices and my life played out differently. But it was so close to reality, and it _felt_ real.”

“I see. It sounds like your mind was trying to put itself back together, then. Your memory was repairing itself, and it played out like a dream. That's just a theory, of course, and I can't really back it up with any science. It's amazing what our minds can do that science still can't understand.”

“That makes sense, though,” I reply. It's almost exactly my own theory on the matter, but I still don't buy it. All of that felt too real, not like a dream at all. My mind wasn't fractured and in need of repair, my reality was. “So how do I get all of that to go away so that I can get back to my regular life?”

“I think it will only go away with time,” he replies. “And talking about it, of course. But you just need to get back into a routine and get as readjusted to your normal life as you can. Convince yourself that the world you're living in now is the real world.”

I can't imagine that's going to be easy, and I have no desire at all to devote even another minute to talking about it, with him or with anyone else. I have no clue how to fight him on this, though. “I suppose. I'm just impatient. I want to feel like me right now.”

“Patience is something you'll have to work on, then,” he says. “We'll talk more about that next time, shall we? We'll figure out how to stay calm and accept that time can only pass so quickly.”

I have to really fight the urge to laugh at that. He has no clue how quickly time can and has passed for me. It seems to me, at least to some version of me, that time can do whatever it damn well pleases. Either way, I suppose I'm along for the ride, completely at the universe's mercy. And I hate it. I hate not having control over... well, anything at all in my life, it seems.

“Does that mean we're done for the day?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I suppose we are. I think you're making progress, but we still need to work on some of your coping skills, especially before we turn you loose on the world and let you go out on tour. But I think you'll be alright,” he says with a smile.

I'm glad he believes it, because I don't. But it means I've faked it well enough. I guess I'm good at being more than one person at the same time. To Dr. Ramos, I'm calm and collected, while on the inside, I'm falling apart more than ever before. I'm just glad he couldn't see that, even though it does feel a bit wrong to hide my breakdown from him. It's for the best, though. I'm sure it is.

I leave the appointment feeling confident that if I can keep up this awful act, I won't have very many more of these appointments. It's a good feeling, despite that nagging voice telling me that I've managed to cheat my way through life again. I just want to be my own person. That's all. As much as I hate to say it, I think that may mean taking a few days away from everyone. As I begin the drive home, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and dial Ike's number.

He answers after several rings, just when I'm beginning to fear the call will go to voicemail. “Hello? Aren't you supposed to be at the head doctor?”

“Finished up early,” I reply. “Are you at the studio?”

“Sure am. What's up?”

“Well... I was calling to ask you a pretty big favor.” This all seems familiar to me, as though I've asked lots of favors of him lately, though I can't recall any. It's that odd sense of deja vu all over again.

“Okay, well, spit it out.”

“The thing is... I was hoping you could handle things at the studio without me for a few days. I just need to rest up a bit and get my mind in the right place.”

“Doctor's orders?”

“Not exactly,” I reply. “Sort of a suggestion, and I'm running with it. I just need to be alone for a while... just a few days, I promise.”

“Is this because of your fight with Taylor?” Damn him for being so observant.

“It's not _not_ because of my fight with Tay...” I say. 

Isaac is silent at first, then he finally sighs. “Okay, fine. Just a few days, and then I expect to see your ass behind the drums again, because I'm not letting this fight delay the album any longer.”

It's harsh, but not unfair. “Okay. I promise. Just a few days.”

If it was entirely up to me, it would be a lot longer than a few days, but I'll take whatever Ike will give me. I hang up the phone and drive the last few miles back to my house, the one refuge I have left. I sit in the driveway for a long time, just enjoying being alone. Somehow, it does feel nice. I hope that for the next few days, I can turn my brain off just like this, and not worry about all the strange thoughts and memories floating around it, making me doubt my sanity more than ever before.


	19. Georgia On My Mind

_August 31, 2007_

After a few days away from the studio and away from most of my family, aside from Kate, I'm starting to feel a little bit more like myself again. I still feel like there's something missing, somehow, and I know it isn't just that things are over with Taylor. There's something just out of my grasp, like I told Dr. Ramos the other day. Maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me, but I'm not convinced.

I'm sure eventually I'll figure out what it is. Maybe it's just weird adjusting to life outside of the hospital. Maybe everyone feels a little bit wrong after a coma. That's what the doctors would have me believe, and I know they probably do know what they're talking about.

While it is kind of nice to just spend the days lounging around my house with Kate, part of me does miss being actually out in the world. I want to get back all the things that made me feel like _me_ -–most important among those being my music. So I can't help but break out into a gigantic smile when Isaac texts me to ask if I'm ready to come back into the studio.

On the way there, I try not to think too much about what might happen when Taylor and I are finally in the same room again. It's barely been a week since I've seen him, but it feels like a lifetime. Something about being away from him like that is gnawing at my consciousness. That feeling that I'm missing something, that my mind is grasping at something just out of its reach, comes back to me again. I don't know what it means.

I try to push all those weird thoughts out of my head and just focus on the business stuff. We were nearly finished the album just before the accident. I remember that much. We even had a working track list, which I'm sure will be the first thing we talk about today, just to see if we're all still happy with it. Since I clearly haven't done any songwriting in the past almost three months, I'm prepared to just sit back and accept whatever Ike and Taylor decide on-–if they can decide on anything at all.

Yeah, it's definitely not going to be a fun day in the office, I decide as I push my way through the already unlocked door. I guess I'm not the first to arrive, which I hope means the meeting will start soon without much time spent awkwardly sitting around beforehand.

No such luck, of course. As I make my way into the building, I can only hear silence, except for music coming from the studio. It's the piano, so I'm betting it's Taylor, and I haven't seen or heard a sign of Isaac at all. That means he's probably running late and I'm left alone to deal with Taylor. Fantastic.

As I enter the studio, I start to recognize the song. It's the same one that Taylor was playing for me in the hospital just before I woke up. Something seemed very significant about that moment, but I couldn't quite place what. He was only playing then, not singing, and even now he's mostly just humming along with the melody. I've always thought it was cute how he would do that before filling in all the verses with actual lyrics. 

That restless, just out of my grasp feeling is back, and it's stronger than ever.

“What did you say this song was called?” I ask, hoping my voice is loud enough to be heard over the piano. It still comes out a little hoarse every now and then, I suppose from lack of use.

“I didn't say,” he says, abruptly stopping and turning to look at me. “But it's called Georgia.”

“That makes sense,” I reply, even though I'm not sure why. It's just one of those weird things that strikes a nerve in me. “I've heard it before, haven't I?”

“Yeah, I was playing it for you in the hospital.”

He seems annoyed with my questions, but that's not going to stop me. Memories and scenes are flying through my mind at an alarming rate and I'm struggling to piece them all together in a way that makes sense. If only I could think of the right questions to ask Taylor that might help me to understand what my brain is doing.

“What are the lyrics? Sing it to me.”

“I haven't figured them all out yet. What I was singing just then is basically all I've written, and I've been working on this damn song for months.”

I grab the notebook laid out in front of him and stare at the lyrics. Something is definitely missing. I know there are more lyrics than that, but I don't know _how_ I know that. “You've been working on it on your own?”

“Yeah,” he replies, suddenly looking away from me. “Like I said, it's for Nat... so I wanted to write it on my own, okay?”

Not caring how little he wants to be near me, I push my way onto the piano bench next to him and try to tap out the same melody he was playing a minute ago. It feels old and familiar, like something I've played a million times before, even though I haven't touched a real piano in months. Without a thought, I start to sing, “'I don't wanna let you go, and I don't wanna lose you slowly...”

“That's not part of the song,” Taylor remarks, scooting away from me and crossing his arms.

“Yes it is. I know it is.”

Taylor frowns at me, and I can tell his impatience is only growing, but I'm on the verge of something big here. I know I am. I just don't quite know _what_. He finally shrugs and grabs the notebook back from under my arm. “I guess it sort of fits the song... maybe I'll use it.”

“It's in the song already. Aren't you listening to me?”

“I'm listening to you, Zac. You just aren't making sense.”

“I wrote it.”

He stares at me incredulously, both as though he has no clue what I mean and as though it should be obvious that I wrote it, since I did just sing it for him. But that's not what I mean. I wrote it, but not in this life. As soon as that thought passes through my mind, everything I've been feeling seems to both make sense and not make sense at the same time. Could my coma dreams have actually been real? Are all these strange thoughts and memories actually, somewhere, somehow, real?

There's one way to prove to him that I'm not crazy, and to prove to myself that what's happening in my mind really did happen. 

The wedding invitation. In my mind, I can see myself writing those lyrics on it. I'm positive of this. I don't really remember the circumstances, but I know it happened, and I know I tucked the invitation into my wallet-–but why? It's still just out of my reach, not quite in my memory. I know I had a very important reason, though.

I pull my wallet out and start pouring its contents onto the piano. Taylor is still frowning so hard he looks like his face has gotten stuck that way. He's practically a caricature of a actual angry person. I'd laugh if his anger wasn't directed at me. Finally, from the pile of rubble in my wallet, I find what I'm looking for and I shove it in Taylor's face.

“Look. Read this.”

He snatches it from my hand and I watch his eyes scan the paper. There's a glimmer of recognition and realization, but then his frown only deepens. “You stole this from my desk. And so what? You stole it and you wrote those lyrics. What's that supposed to prove?”

Perhaps I didn't think this through. What _does_ it prove? In my mind, I know what it's proof of, but with Taylor already this angry at me, I don't dare explain to him that I wrote those lyrics in an alternate reality. But isn't that what happened? Somewhere, somehow, while my body lay in a coma, the rest of me was off in an alternate world, writing lyrics to the song my brother was playing to me while he waited for me to wake up.

And he claims the song is about Natalie? No. That's what this proves, and I'm going to call his bluff. “Yeah, I stole it. Whatever. It's _my_ wedding invitation, so why are there lyrics about _your_ wife on it?”

“Because-–just stop going through my stuff, okay? You had no business. No fucking business.”

He storms out of the room. I've definitely hit a nerve, and I've proven one thing. He did not write that song about Natalie. He wrote that song about me, and just as I remember, it was the key to bringing me back. Now if only it could somehow help me get him back and never lose him again.


	20. A Pretty Sizable Chunk of the Truth

_September 3, 2007_

I don't know if Isaac is just completely oblivious to what's going on between Taylor and me, or what. He tends to be the oblivious type, probably because that's easier on his sanity than accepting what's really going on. Despite the fact that Taylor and I have barely spoken to each other in a week, Isaac is still pushing us hard to finish this album. We're in the studio every day, slaving away at songs that seem finished to me, but he keeps finding things to work on and flaws to pick at.

All that work means that every night I fall into bed completely exhausted from all long day spent in the studio, singing, drumming, and arguing. We've never worked this hard before, but I know we need to catch up if we're going to release this album next month like we've had planned.

And every night, I'm plagued by horrible dreams. I dream of the car wreck and of an alternate reality in which Taylor didn't survive but I did. I wake each morning with that nagging feeling of something missing only growing stronger and stronger. 

On this particular morning, the feeling of deja vu is stronger than ever. I'm alone in bed, the sunlight streaming in through the window and blinding me. I can hear a television on downstairs and coffee brewing in the pot, so I know I'm not alone. That's the only thing that stills my pounding heart. 

I've been here before. Only, last time I was really, truly alone, and I awoke on the wrong morning altogether. Instinctively, I reach for my cell phone to check the date. September 3. The day it should be.

Suddenly, all the strange thoughts in my mind make sense. I've woken up twice to mornings like this. I've woken up _twice_ on August 10, 2007, each time to a completely different morning. I'm positive now that it wasn't a dream. Somewhere out in space or out in time, I lived, briefly, a different life. A life completely without Taylor. A life where everything I'd built for myself came tumbling down.

But I'm not in that life now. I'm in the right one, and somehow, without understanding how I know it, I know that I'm never leaving this life again.

I remember the feeling that I was supposed to learn a lesson from that other life. But how can I learn anything if Taylor is still pulling away from me? Was the lesson truly that our relationship was wrong? No. I can't believe that. I need him in my life, completely.

If you ask me, the lesson was to appreciate what I've got. Not to take it for granted. I've barely given Kate the attention she deserves, even though I got into this marriage with the hopes of being normal for once. And in doing so, I've pulled away from Taylor for so long that he finally has given me what he thought I wanted. Only I know now that I didn't want that at all. I want them both in my life, and I'm determined to fight to keep them both.

I feel rejuvenated and inspired. I feel like all the haze and confusion from the coma has finally dissipated and I can really see what lies in front of me. Despite the early hour, this new-found feeling of peace makes it easy to pull myself out of bed and get dressed.

“Well, you're up and at 'em early,” Kate remarks as I make my way into the kitchen. “Don't tell me the coma turned you into a morning person.”

“Maybe it did,” I reply, kissing her forehead. “You didn't have to make breakfast, though. I'm feeling so good today, I might have even tried to cook.”

“Okay, you are definitely not the same Zac I used to know. And there is no way I'm letting you cook. Anyway, it's just toast and eggs. Nothing fancy.”

I take the place she's offering me and sit down at the table. “Well, I appreciate it no matter what it is. You know I'd starve without someone here to cook for me.”

“I highly doubt that,” she replies with a laugh. “You'd just live on cereal and frozen food.”

“Maybe. But that's not my point. It's not just about the food and everything like that. You know there's so much more that I love about you, right?”

She nods slowly. “I suppose so. Sometimes I wonder.”

“Sometimes I don't do a very good job of showing how I feel.”

“I just feel like sometimes...” she bites her lip, and I can see that she's considering her next words very carefully. “Sometimes I'm not sure what's going on in your mind at all. Why you stay with me when you seem so... distant sometimes.”

“I know I'm like that,” I say, reaching my hand across the table to hold hers. “But it's just a character flaw. Who knows, maybe it's gone now. Maybe the coma changed that. But the thing is, you're like the one constant in my life. You came into it when lots of things were just falling apart, and whether you know it or not, you help hold me together. Even when I suck at showing how much that – how much _you_ mean to me.”

It's a pretty nice little speech and I'm proud of myself for it. Maybe it's not the whole truth, but it's a pretty sizable chunk of it. I feel accomplished already, and it's not even ten am. In the long term, I don't know how much telling Kate all that will really change things, but it makes me feel better. I can only hope the rest of the day will go as smoothly as this has.

I feel on top of the world as I finish breakfast and drive myself to the office, but that feeling passes when I walk in the door. It's not a big office, and I swear I can feel the tension as soon as I walk inside. Not only that, but I can hear angry voices drifting down the hallway, so I know Isaac and Taylor are already there and, evidently, arguing. So much for my day being off to a great start.

“I'm not talking to him about finishing Rosa.”

“You're not talking to him about _anything_ right now, are you? I'm not stupid. I can tell you guys are fighting again.”

“Just drop it. Just fucking drop it.”

It takes every bit of strength and courage I have to open the conference room doors. The only thought that pushes me to do it is the realization that if I stand there much longer, just listening in, one of them is bound to storm out and discover me with my ear pressed up against it. Not wanting to be embarrassed like that, I decide to just walk on in and pretend I haven't heard a thing.

“So, what are we working on today?” I ask, trying to sound as happy as I felt just a short while ago.

Isaac raises an eyebrow. “From the looks of things, nothing.”

“Well, that's good. Right? A day off?” I'm still trying to sound chipper, but I can see by the two raised eyebrows that neither of them are buying it.

Isaac rolls his eyes. “If only that were the case. We're still nowhere near finished, and I seem to be the only one who wants to put in any effort.”

Taylor stabs his pen into the notebook in front of him and I can't help thinking that he's imagining the notebook is actually Isaac-–or me. “That's not true and you know it. I just don't want to work on any of the songs you're suggesting. When your suggestions stop sucking, maybe I'll be interested in finishing the album.”

When these arguments happen, and they're a pretty regular occurrence, I tend to be the peacemaker. However, today I feel like playing devil's advocate. I want to push Taylor's buttons. I want to see what I can do. Now that I can remember fully what happened in that alternate reality, I know things couldn't get any worse here. Whatever I do to piss him off, it's still not the worst cast scenario.

“What about the song you were working on the other day... Georgia?”

Taylor's head whips around so fast that I fear he might give himself whiplash. He stares at me for a moment, squinting, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He's considering all the possibly ways he can reply to that, and which replies he can actually say in front of Ike. 

“Well? What about that song, Tay?” Leave it to Ike to press the issue when he has no clue what's really going on.

Taylor grits his teeth. “I told Zac that song wasn't finished. And it isn't going to be. Everyone needs to just forget it ever existed.”

I don't think Taylor honestly has any clue how obvious he's being. He wants me to believe that song isn't about me, but I know it is. Even if he were just angry about me stealing the first draft of the lyrics, that's no excuse to declare the song dead, which is something we rarely do anyway. Even years down the line, we've been known to bring songs back out and finish them when others would have abandoned them.

No, it's not about my little petty theft. It's about me. I just don't understand why he's so angry, and why he's so intent on us being over. Unfortunately, as much as I want to keep pressing the issue, I can't really ask that question in front of Isaac. If I want to continue this conversation, I'm going to have to tread lightly.

“I thought that song really had something going for it. Something that wasn't worth giving up on.” It's a simple, honest statement that perfectly says how I feel – both about the song and about us. I hope both messages get through to him.

Something flashes in his eyes for a moment, and I think the anger's going to dissipate, but then it's back so quickly that I have to wonder if I was just seeing what I wanted to see. “No. That song was a mistake. Just leave it.”

“You shouldn't give up so easily.”

“I'm not. I never have. But I know when to let things go. When something obviously wants to be let go, you can't hold onto it.”

Taylor slams his notebook shut and storms out of the room, leaving Isaac to stare at me awkwardly, no doubt awaiting my explanation. But I can't explain it. I think I'm beginning to see Taylor's problem-–it's the same one I had five years ago-–but there's no way I can really put that into words that won't cause Isaac to completely lose it. And truthfully, I don't understand it at all. I know why I felt abandoned, why I felt like Taylor was letting me go. But how can he feel that way about me? Why now, after everything he's done, can he act like I'm the one leaving him?

“I understood all of the words in that conversation, but somehow I still have no clue what the hell just happened,” Isaac says.

I stare at the door Taylor has just stormed out of as though I might will him back through it with my mind. When I finally accept that that isn't going to happen, I glance over at Isaac and offer him a shrug. “I really can't explain it. I guess he doesn't like that song.”

“It sounds more like he doesn't like you.”

“That's a distinct possibility.”

“Well, I don't care what you have to do, but the two of you need to fix this. I'm not unsympathetic to the fact that you're still a bit out of sorts, but Taylor has no excuse for being an asshole right now.”

“Agreed,” I reply. “But it's really not that simple.”

“It never is with the two of you. I accepted that a long time ago.”

I'm not entirely sure what he means by that, but I can guess, and the look he's giving me says that my guess isn't too far off the mark. So I guess Isaac knows. At least it saves me some explanation, I suppose. I remember how reluctantly he accepted the truth that other life, and through the anger on his face, I can see the same thing now. I feel awful for putting him through this. Maybe someday I'll stop being so selfish and start not only realize how my actions affect everyone else around me, but actually do something about that realization.

“Look, Ike. I don't know what else to try with him. It feels like I just can't get through to him anymore. Maybe in time, after I'm totally back to normal, I'll be able to talk to him without him running out of the room, but it hasn't happened yet.”

Isaac sighs and slowly begins to nod. “I know. I know this takes time, and I know that we're probably pushing you to get 'back to normal' too fast. I don't know what his problem is, but I should probably be more worried about making sure you're okay right now.”

“I'll be fine. You know me. I'm pretty resilient.”

“I know, but Jesus, Zac. You just came out of a coma, and here we are pushing you to record and sing and all this stuff. Is it too soon?”

“No. It's not,” I reply, dangerously close to snapping and growling at him. “I need this. I need the music or I'm really not going to feel like myself. It's one of the few things going right for me right now, so don't even think about taking it away.”

“Okay. Alright, you're right. I'm just really at a loss about how to get this band back to normal.”

“Me too,” I reply, completely honestly.

Normalcy was something I once desperately wanted. I wanted, with everything in me, not to constantly long for Taylor, especially when it was so obvious he didn't want only me. Kate held me together through the worst of that, so I clung to her and made her a permanent part of my life, thinking that would somehow magically solve my problems.

Needless to say, it didn't.

I've realized now, that I don't want to be normal. I just want to be me. I just want the things that make me feel _right_ , and that isn't the same as normal. But, I've also realized that I was horribly selfish in the past, so I'm willing to let Taylor go for now. In the part of my mind that hated him for leaving me, I can understand his frustration and confusion over what I've done. 

I just have to give him time. In time, maybe he'll realize that being with me isn't the end of the world. I've been to the end of the world-–or, at least, the end of my world. It wasn't like this at all.


	21. Slipping Away

_September 5, 2007_

We accomplish very little in the office that day, since Taylor doesn't come back at all after storming out like the drama queen he often is. Isaac and I manage to perfect a few of the guitar parts and drum fills on some of the songs we had declared almost complete, thus taking them all the way to complete. But without Taylor, there's really not much else we can do.

Although I know that being totally without Taylor would truly be worse, there's a certain horrible pain in having him so near, yet so far away. I had thought, from the way he looked at me when I woke up in the hospital, the way I know he sat by my side the entire time I was there, that things would be different now.

Yet, somehow, it's driven an even bigger wedge between us.

When we've gone through an entire day without so much as a word from Taylor to let us know he's okay, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I call his cell phone, but of course he doesn't answer. I call his house, and Natalie tells me he's busy. Not to be deterred, I call his cell phone one more time. It goes to voicemail and I muster up my courage to say all the things I wanted to say to him.

“Hey, Taylor. I know you're ignoring me. And that's okay. Ignore me as long as you want, but eventually you're going to have to face whatever your problem is with me. And I think I know what it is, and I get that. Believe me, I do. If you'll talk to me, I'll tell you what I mean and you'll either think I'm crazy-–if you don't already-–or you'll understand why I'm so desperate not to let go of what we have. I'm going to our old studio tonight, so if you want to fix this... just come over and talk to me. Please.”

I don't know if he's going to answer me or not, or if he'll just show up without warning. I guess there's really no way to predict what he's going to do at any point in time. And right now, all I can do is just take a leap of faith of hope that my plea to him was enough for him to follow me.

For the rest of the day, I'm all on edge, thinking about what might happen in the evening. I know Kate can tell that something's up, but she doesn't mention it until she notices how quickly I'm shoveling dinner into my mouth.

“In a hurry?” She asks, laughing a little.

I shrug. “I'm going in to the studio tonight. Just anxious about it.”

“You're working too hard lately, I think. You've not even been out of the hospital for two weeks.”

“We've got to get this album out, Katie,” I reply, trying not to take out my frustration on her. She's right that I'm pushing myself, but I've got my reasons. “I'm doing fine. Even the doctors at the hospital keep telling me how quickly I'm recovering. Anyway, I'm hoping Taylor will come over tonight so we can talk things out...”

“Is he still being weird?” 

I nod, trying to decide how much to tell her. Somehow, I think she really does know more than she lets on, if our last conversation was anything to judge by. “Yeah. Everyone has been weird to me, though. Even you, always worried that I'm pushing too hard. But Taylor's been the worst. I don't know. We'll work things out. We always do.”

“You two are always like that, aren't you? Hot and cold, I mean.”

“Yeah. I guess we are.”

She's a perceptive one, and that's something I sometimes forget. How could I ever doubt that she really does, on some level, know mine and Taylor's secret? Maybe she's just compartmentalized it away and learned how to deal with it, the way that Natalie has. I hope I don't give her as big a burden to bear as Taylor has Natalie, though.

Now that I've managed to think myself into a depression, I suppose there's nothing left to do but face my fears and head on to the studio. I figure we've made enough awful memories in our office lately, so instead this meeting, if it even happens, will be in our other studio at our parents' house. It's not neutral territory by any means, but it's a little more private and a change of pace from where our last few arguments took place.

That is, assuming Taylor even shows up for this argument. 

My stomach is twisted into knots for the entire drive there, and I feel like I could possibly lose that dinner I just shoveled into myself. Since I definitely don't need any more food right now, I ease my car into the space in front of the garage instead of the main driveway, and head straight into the studio rather than the house. If I make it through the threshold of the house, mom will start throwing food my way and coddling me, and I'm really not in any state to handle that right now.

The studio is eerily quiet, so I know I can't just sit there and wait for Taylor to maybe show up. I've got to get up and make some noise just to fill in the time and the awful silence. So, without much of a plan, I sit down at the piano and start to play Georgia. It's the first song that pops into my mind, and before I really know what's happening, my fingers are finding their way through it, although not quite as nicely as when Taylor played it.

I slip into a bit of a trance as I play. That happens sometimes, but usually not when I'm at the piano. I'm not all that good at it, so I usually need to really concentrate to keep from hitting some really sour notes. But my mind just seems to drift away from me. It's a nice, floating feeling that I can't help giving in to...

“Zac! Zac, wake up!” 

The floating feeling stops, and it seems like all the air is sucked from my lungs, like I've just hit the bottom of a cliff. I gasp for breath and my eyes shoot open, to reveal Taylor leaning over me. I seem to have fallen into the floor, but I don't remember when or how.

Taylor is staring down at me with so much concern written across his face, his hand gently caressing the side of my face. It's a completely different Taylor from the one I've seen for the past few days. But, I realize, it isn't really _that_ different. He's been so full of concern for me-–my safety, my sanity, my needs. The only thing he ignored was my want-–my _need_ -–for him. And if the way he's looking at me now is any indication, he's put his own needs and wants aside to do so.

“What happened?” I finally manage to gasp out, still feeling lost, confused and dizzy. I blink slowly, trying to bring him completely into focus.

Taylor heaves a sigh of relief. “I think you passed out. You were in the floor when I came in, and you were so still... I thought maybe you were...”

I reach out and touch the side of his face, trying to will him not to start crying. I can tell by the way his voice is trembling and his bottom lip twitching, that he's going to cry if I don't still his nerves soon. “I'm fine, Tay. I'm lucky this hasn't happened more, but it's not exactly weird to be disoriented and stuff like that after... after a coma.”

I imagine I would sound more reassuring if I could keep my own voice from shaking, but it kills me to see Taylor so worried and scared. He's the one who always looked out for me and took care of me when we were younger, and now I'm seeing him try but fail.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should get you to the hospital,” he says, biting his lip and staring at me incredulously.

“No, I'll be fine,” I say, pulling myself up slowly, so that I'm sitting in the floor and looking him in the eyes. “I'll call my doctor tomorrow and see what he says, but I'm sure I'll be okay now. Whatever happened, it's passed. It's over.”

He still looked unconvinced, but finally he replied, “Okay. If you say so. But let's just sit here for a while to be sure, okay? No jumping up and banging on the drums or anything.”

“I didn't just come here to rehearse, you know. I came here to talk.”

He nods, still caressing the side of my face. “I know. But I was thinking maybe we could work on that song... you know, Georgia?”

“The one that's about your wife?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“You know that isn't true.”

I nod. “I do. I just didn't expect you to admit it so easily. I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, Tay, but you're a little stubborn.”

“Only a little? I'm improving,” he replies with a grin.

We sit there in silence for a while, but I don't mind. The two of us are usually either so talkative or not speaking at all out of anger, that it's nice just to sit and comfortably be near each other without saying a word. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close, like he's afraid I'm going to leave.

I'll admit, I'm a little afraid of it too, but I wouldn't be leaving on purpose. In my memory of that other reality, I know that I slipped away in much the same way that I just did. There was no vision this time, no sense of flying away, but it still terrifies me. I can't be leaving again. I can't. I still firmly believe that was real, not a dream, but I refuse to accept that it's possible I could go back there. This is the reality I want, especially now that I have Taylor back. I hold him closer, as if that might somehow stop me from passing out again and leaving him.

But I don't pass out. I stay right there on the studio floor, holding Taylor close for the first time since the day I woke from the coma. I thought I missed him before, but I didn't realize just how much until this moment. The way he feels in my arms, the way it's always felt so right to hold him and be held by him... it's perfect. It's just absolutely, fucking perfect.

As much as I hate to end this moment, I have so many questions I need answered. With reluctance, I pull away so I can look Taylor in the eyes. “Tay? Why did this happen? I mean, why are you pulling away from me like this?”

“I'm not sure I even remember now,” he replies. “When I came in here and saw you like that, I forgot about being upset at all. And I wasn't really upset with you. Well, I was, about the song, a little bit. That was private. I didn't even think you could hear me when you were... in the coma. And I didn't want you to know it was about you.”

“I'm sorry for stealing it from you. But you weren't... around... when I took it. I know that doesn't make sense.”

He shakes his head. “No, it doesn't. And it doesn't change the fact that it was something really private that you went snooping for.”

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to freak out and have me committed or something?”

“No, but go ahead and tell me.”

I take a long breath before diving into the story. “Okay. Maybe it was just a coma dream, because they don't really know if people dream during comas or not, or what they might dream about if they did, but... well, it doesn't feel like a dream. I don't know. For what felt like weeks, I was in this weird place, where I just suddenly woke up-–the day after my wedding, or so I thought-–with part of my memory gone. I was a year ahead in time, on the exact day that I woke up in the hospital. Except I was in bed alone, at my house. And you were...dead.”

He stares at me wide eyed. “That really makes no sense.”

“I know. Well, it was just like reality, except you died in the accident and I wasn't even there. Lots of things didn't make sense, but then parts of this reality started to seep in until I was back in the office the night you decided we should hang out again, like old times. Remember?”

“Of course. I've spent almost three months regretting it,” he replies, looking away from me when he admits that.

“Well, that's when I remembered what really happened, that I was driving the car, and then I went back to the night of the accident. Then I woke up in the hospital, and my memories were all mixed up, but I did remember everything eventually. Everything about this world and... the other one. And I remember missing you so much, Tay. Kate had left me, too, and I didn't have anyone. Everyone I loved was gone and... god, it was awful. Now I'm back here, but I still feel that pain, and you're still pulling away from me. Everything should be okay now, but it's not.”

When I finally finish the story, I have to stop and take a long, deep breath. It seems like all of that, especially the last part about my feelings, just came pouring out of me faster than I could even think about the words I was saying. It feels so good to finally have it out there, but it's terrifying, too. Taylor's just staring at me, and I have no idea what he's thinking or feeling, or what he's going to say or do once he processes what I've told him.

“All of that felt real? Not like a dream? Are you sure?” He finally manages to ask.

“It felt so, horribly real,” I reply. “I mean, it felt wrong, too. Like something horrible and traumatic had made everything in my world go wrong. None of it made sense, but not in the way that dreams sometimes don't make sense. I know it's insane, but I can't explain it any better than that.”

He runs a shaky hand down his face, then slowly begins to nod. “Okay. I don't think you're crazy, but... it probably was just a dream, you know? But if you believe it wasn't, I'll accept that. Because whatever it was, whatever happened, it obviously put you through exactly what I've been through. Maybe worse.”

I nod. “It was pretty bad. And there's still this hole in me, you know? There's something missing. And it's you.”

“I'm not gone, Zac. I just didn't think, especially after my stupid, reckless actions almost killed you, that we were a good idea anymore. And you seemed to have realized that a year before I did, anyway.”

“But I didn't realize that. I thought we should be over, but after I lost you, really lost you, I knew I was wrong.”

“You never told me that.”

That one stuns me into silence. I know there's a lot I've not shared with Taylor, like just how deep my feelings for him go, but I guess I always assumed that he just knew without me actually having to say any of it. I should know better than that, I suppose. How _could_ he know anything if I haven't told him? It seems so obvious. I finally manage to stutter out, “I thought you knew how I felt. I mean, I love you. More than I guess I should, but I can't help that. I thought I wanted to be normal and I tried that, but it didn't make things any better.”

“And you didn't tell me any of that,” he replies. “Think about it from my point of view. You married Kate purely out of choice-–a choice that I didn't get to make for myself, by the way. It was a slap in the face. I know I was never... as good to you as I should have been, but I had no clue that was what you really wanted from me. And once you were married, I thought you wanted nothing from me. So that's what I gave you. I'm sorry.”

“I think I can find it in myself to forgive you. If you promise me one thing.”

He offers me a small, hesitant smile. “What's that one thing?”

“Don't ever fucking do that again. I'm not asking for total faithfulness, because... well, we've both got our wives and that's kinda just how it has to be, but I just want to know that I _mean_ something to you.”

“You do, Zac. Of course you do,” he says, caressing the side of my face like he'd rather slap it for saying something that silly. “I never said it to you, either, not that way, but... I love you, too.”

I lean up and kiss him then. I can't stand the distance between us anymore and that's the best way I can think of to make it go away. He pulls back from the kiss sooner than I'd like, and just stares at me like he hasn't seen me in forever, his hands in my hair.

“Please don't leave me again, Tay,” I whisper.

“I won't. I promise,” he says. “Now, how about we finish Georgia?”


	22. The Illusion of Normalcy

_September 27, 2007_

Everything seems to fall easily back into place after that night. There is still some trepidation, and we don't fall into bed with each other immediately-–in fact we don't do that at all. But we're brothers again, in a way that we haven't been since maybe before either one of us was married. It feels normal, like nothing else has in years.

We finish the album quickly, and set off on the promotional tour we had scheduled long before anything had happened to change our plans. Although we had originally envisioned a long, full summer and fall tour, we end up rearranging it a bit. A few dates have been canceled or pushed back, but it will still be a long trip away from home. I can tell that everyone was nervous about letting me go, but ultimately, they can't stop me. This is what I needed, the final missing piece that will make me feel like me again, wholly.

The plan is to play a few dates in major cities leading up to the official album release a few weeks later, then hit a few of the other dates and cities that were salvaged from the original tour schedule. Nothing too strenuous for me, and it won't keep us away from our wives for too long, either. I know Kate wanted to come along on the tour, but she also understood, on some level, that the time alone with Taylor (and Isaac, although in a totally different way) would be good for me. 

The first tour date is in New York City, and we arrive a day early to do some radio promotion and also to have time to just relax. Even though I do feel totally recovered, I'm not going to complain about a slower paced, somewhat relaxing tour schedule. It will be a nice change of pace from what I've become accustomed to over the years.

After an early morning round of radio promo, Taylor heads back to the hotel for a nap, leaving Isaac and me alone for lunch. I promise to bring him back a coffee and a sandwich, but I can't help feeling a little bit of resentment as I watch him step into a different cab. I try not to let it show, though, as Ike and I hail our own cab and ride to one of our favorite delis that we discovered during our short time living in New York.

Isaac waits until we had sat down with our food to speak, probably so that he has me effectively cornered. “So, is everything okay between you and Taylor?”

“Yeah, why?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes I'm not sure. You're speaking again, which is nice, but something still seems strange. Can't put my finger on it.”

I decide now is an appropriate time to bite off a huge chunk of my BLT, largely because it buys me time to think about how I'm going to answer his question and keeps me from having to blurt something out right away. Not that I'm above talking with my mouth full, but on this particular occasion, I'm all for doing anything that will delay replying.

Finally, I can avoid it no longer. “I guess things are still weird, but things are weird with everyone right now. Kate's finally stopped walking on eggshells around me, but I can tell she's still weirded out by what happened. Taylor kinda feels like it's his fault, so... it's taking him a little longer to feel normal again.”

“He probably feels like it's his fault because I think everyone in the family, myself included, yelled that at him at some point. But he beat himself up even harder than we did. We didn't mean it, you know? You just say those things because you're looking for somewhere to place the blame when something so unexpected, so tragic happens.”

It's still a little strange to hear anyone talk about what took place while I was in the hospital. Taylor and I haven't had a serious talk about it since the night in the studio, so I may have some idea how he feels, but there's obviously still pieces missing from my knowledge. I suppose there always will be, and that's a feeling I'll just have to get used to.

“Well, for what it's worth, I don't blame him. And he knows that. We talked, but I think it's still going to take a while for him to really get used to me being... back, I guess.”

Like so many other things I've said to everyone, it isn't the full story. But it's enough. Over the last few weeks, Isaac has been watching the two of us closer than ever, like he's looking for some sort of clue. I don't know if he's found it, but if he has, he's not asking all of the questions that must be running through his mind. I'm sure he must have wondered about mine and Taylor's relationship, but he seems willing to stay a little bit in the dark. And I'm more than willing to let him.

“Well, I just hope it stays that way. We don't need any more fights or for anything like that to happen again.”

He doesn't even know how right he is. Or maybe he does. Either way, I agree with him wholeheartedly, and that's enough to bring that discussion to an end. For the rest of our lunch, we're focused only on the music and the plan for that night's concert. 

I still can't get my mind off of Taylor, though. I want to really hear him tell me all about what it felt to be without me. I need to know it all. I've agonized over losing him, when I suppose I hadn't really, for all that it felt real. I want to know his pain just as intimately as I know mine.

There isn't time to talk, though. After lunch comes sound check, followed by quick showers and an even quicker dinner. Then comes the concert. It feels incredible to be back onstage. It's been so long. My hands wrap around the drumsticks like they've never left, like they are an extension of my body. Nothing will ever compare to how it feels to be onstage, playing music with my brothers. Looking over and seeing both of them there, seeing the way that Taylor glances back at me and gives me a secret little smile, is the best feeling in the world.

And, I'm not gonna lie, something about all of this is turning me on just a little bit. Maybe it's the music pulsing through my body. Maybe it's the crowd's excitement that's almost a tangible presence in the room. Or maybe it's that secret little smile of Taylor's and the way he's practically making love to his piano.

Whatever it is, I'm surprised I can even manage to focus on the music, and as much I enjoy the concert, I'm not exactly sad when it's over. I practically run across the stage to take my spot between Taylor and Isaac for our bow. I can feel the electric current passing between us when Taylor grabs my hand, and I know he feels it too. He squeezes my hand a little and I glance over at him. He's smiling even wider than before, and I don't think it's just because we played an awesome set.

I hardly even want to let go of Taylor's hand, even after the bow is over, but I realize it might look a bit odd if I were to drag him offstage with a death grip on his hand. So I settle for giving him a look that I hope conveys just how much I want some alone time with him once we're offstage.

We rush backstage, past dozens of people milling about, doing their jobs. This is a pretty nice venue, so there's a shower we're free to use and Ike, easily the most hygienic of us three, is quick to rush to it before asking if anyone else wants to shower. I'm just fine with that. It leaves me and Taylor somewhat alone – at least, as alone as we can be in a green room where members of the venue staff and our own staff are constantly walking in and out.

I flop down on the couch, letting myself spread out and relax. All that nervous energy is still flowing through my body, but it feels nice to just sit still, too. Taylor sits down beside me a bit more delicately, and slides close enough to talk privately, but not close enough attract too much attention. 

He leans his head toward me. “So, I've been thinking...”

“That's dangerous,” I reply with a grin.

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Zac. I thought we should spend some time together tonight. You know, _together._ ”

I couldn't agree more, but I don't have time to reply before Isaac is walking back into the room, a towel slung over his shoulder and a new outfit on his back. “You guys coming out to sign autographs, or are you going to shower first?”

“I'm not really feeling up to signing tonight,” I say, hoping that my face doesn't give me away with one of the smiles I can feel threatening to overtake it. “I think I should just go on back to the bus and lay down. Make an excuse for me?”

Taylor touches my arm sympathetically. “I'll keep an eye in him. Just in case he starts getting dizzy or anything.”

Part of me hates to play on Ike's sympathy like this, but it's the easiest way to get some time alone. It's so simple and so obvious, and of course he agrees that we should head right back to the bus and relax while he takes care of the fans. I offer him a grateful smile and try my best not to walk too quickly out of the building, lest I give away the fact that I actually feel just fine-–more than fine, even.

The bus is parked close to the back doors of the venue and surrounded by venue security, so Taylor and I manage to make our escape without coming face to face with any fans. Not that we have anything against the fans, but if even a single one of them were to stop us, we'd inevitably have to stay and sign a few autographs, and it could easily be an hour or more before we're able to pry ourselves away from them. It's just not something I really feel like dealing with right at the moment.

We rush onto the bus, and I can't speak for Taylor, but I'm praising every god I can think of that no one else has made their way back to the bus yet. That means we've got at least a few minutes entirely on our own, before we have to worry about anyone disturbing us.

I grasp Taylor's hand tightly as we make our way through the narrow hallway of the bus and into the lounge. I barely even give him time to close and lock the door before I've got him pinned against it, my lips crushed against his desperately. We've hardly done more than kiss in weeks, and even those kisses were nothing like this. They were chaste, even sweet, and always with an edge of worry that we needed to be quick so we weren't caught. But now we have some privacy and I'm going to take advantage of it.

“I've missed you,” I whisper against his lips. 

He smiles and I can feel it against my lips even more than I can see it. “I've missed you, too. So much.”

We've never been all that sappy and romantic when we have sex, but this time I don't mind it, even if we can't really slow down and savor it quite as much as I'd like. I tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him again, even harder this time. My hips roll against his, pressing our erections together and letting him know exactly what it is that I want.

He hooks his fingers into my belt loops and pushes me back toward the couch, where we fall together in a tangle of limps. It's not graceful at all, but I don't care. Every inch of our bodies touching is the only thing I care about right now. Taylor tries to roll our bodies over so that I'm on top of him, but that's not what I want this time. I want him on top, in control. I want him to feel me. Somehow, I feel like this might make everything okay, might alleviate some of his guilt.

“Are you sure?” he gasps out when he realizes what I'm asking of him.

“Yes. Absolutely.” I punctuate my statement by reaching between us and stroking him through his pants.

That's all the encouragement he needs, and soon he's tearing at his own pants, forcing the zipper down and freeing himself from the confines of his underwear. I do the same to my own pants, leaving us both half naked and panting, drinking in the feeling of being skin to skin for the first time in months. I kick my pants off completely so that I can wrap my legs around Taylor's and pull him even closer to me. 

He still seems unsure, so I grab his hand and suck two fingers into my mouth, wetting them thoroughly. I don't know how else to convince him of exactly what I want, but that seems to do the trick. He slips his hand between my legs, his fingers finding the place I so desperately want them to be. He's gentle, but not slow, since we still don't know how much time we're going to have. I don't mind; I wouldn't care if he even hurt me a little bit. I can take it.

I can't help how loud I moan as he moves his fingers in and out of me. I try to move my hips toward him, urging him deeper, and he gets the hint. He adds a third finger and, even though it hurts a little, I moan even louder. I reach out and wrap my hand around his dick, concentrating on pumping it with the same rhythm Taylor is using on me. Soon we're both moaning, perfectly in sync. 

“Zac, I don't think... I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that,” Taylor manages to gasp out. He withdraws his fingers from me slowly, hesitantly, as though he doesn't really want to stop.

I guide his dick toward my entrance and nudge my hips upward so that I've practically done all the work for him. He barely has to move an inch to finally connect our bodies together the way I wanted them. A wonderful shudder passes through my body and I sigh loudly in both relief and pleasure. “Oh, Taylor.”

He doesn't reply, but I don't need to hear any words to know how he feels. His whole body is shaking as he begins to thrust into me. His pace builds by the second until I can barely take it and I know my fingernails are going to leave some awful marks on his back. But I don't care. I need him closer, so I'll have him closer. The muscles in my legs tense painfully as they wrap tightly around his legs, pulling him ever closer to me. 

It isn't long until we're both shuddering. I'm not even moaning out loud anymore; my mouth hangs open, but not a sound escapes aside from my heavy breaths. Taylor presses a serious of quick kisses down the side of my face and then sinks into me again with two long, hard thrusts. Before he's even pulled out, he's wrapped his hand around my dick to finish me off. I'm so close that it only takes a few seconds before I'm shooting my own load all over the bare patch of his stomach where his shirt has ridden up.

As much as I would love to just lay there and cuddle forever, I know that's a luxury we don't have time for. We both jump up quickly and hurry to replace or change our clothes and straighten our hair so that we might look a little less guilty. 

Taylor slips out to the bathroom and I go to search the refrigerator for a soda. Luckily, someone has seen fit to buy a whole case of Mountain Dew and I settle into the couch with a cold can in my hand. I turn on the television, just for the illusion of normalcy, but I don't plan on watching anything. Soon, Taylor returns from the bathroom and settles in next to me with his laptop. We look completely normal from the outside. And from the inside, I think we look just as normal. This is where I want to be. This is who I want to be. It's perfect.


	23. Back To Normal Again... Or Not

_October 3, 2007_

From that night on, everything seems completely back to normal. Whatever normal ever was. It's such an overused word, especially in my life, that I feel like it has completely lost any meaning it might have ever had. Especially for me. In short, fuck being normal. I like being me, as weird and fucked up as I am.

Another thing I happen to like are the long breaks between concerts on this promotional tour. We get to sleep in actual hotel rooms quite often, rather than going straight from the bus to the venue. Sometimes we even get a few days off to rest in each city before or after the show. I know it's all for my benefit while I get back to 100% of the person I was before the accident, and while on some level that bothers me, on another it's just a really nice, relaxing change of pace.

I don't even remember what city we're in this morning, but I don't care. Any city where I get to sleep in late in a comfortable hotel bed is a good city in my book. I would have liked it even better if I could have shared with Taylor, but I know at this point, that would have looked odd. Even though I feel like by now our relationship is practically an open secret, there are still things that it just seems like we ought to hide. I'm never going to be okay with that, but I can understand it.

I take my time waking up and I even indulge myself by staying in bed awake for some time before finally pulling myself out from under the covers and into the shower. We're supposed to meet for brunch in the hotel's restaurant to run through our schedule for the next few days-–the album's official release is just a few days away, so there's a lot to do-–so I pull on a clean pair of clothes and make my way toward the first floor of the hotel.

I know Taylor has something up his sleeve, some crazy plan for promotion, but he hasn't shared it with any of us yet. I have a feeling he's going to bring it, whatever it is, up at this meeting. It's fascinating to watch his mind work, because he's a little bit like a mad scientist or an evil genius. You're never quite sure if he's brilliant or just totally off his rocker. I can't help smiling to myself as the elevator ticks off each floor, growing closer and closer to the ground floor.

At the third floor, my cell phone rings and I pull it from my pocket. It's Kate. She doesn't call often because she doesn't know my schedule, so she's taking a risk in guessing that I'll be awake and able to talk this early. 

“Hello?”

“I didn't wake you up, did I?” she asks, and her voice is nervous and urgent, like she might be on the verge of crying about something.

“No, I was already up, believe it or not. We've actually got a pretty easy day, but we were going to have a band meeting this morning. Afternoon. Whatever.”

Kate laughs. “Hansons, awake in the morning? I'll believe that when I see it.”

“Awake _and_ functional. Must be a sign of the apocalypse.”

She laughs again, but this time I notice it's a little strained. “Well, if you're busy... I can call back.”

“No, it's fine,” I reply, stepping out of the elevator and walking into the gigantic lobby, trying to remember the way to the restaurant. “I'm not at the meeting yet. What's up?”

“Well... you know how I was feeling a little strange the last few days?”

“Yeah, are you feeling better?”

“Yes and no,” she replies. “I mean, I feel the same, but now I know what's wrong.”

“And that makes it better?” I ask, only half listening as I finally make my way to a sign that points me toward the hotel's lounge and restaurant.

“It does. It makes it a lot better.”

I feel like there's still something she's not telling me, and it's taking forever to pull it out of her. I walk into the restaurant and see Taylor and Ike waving to me, so I switch the phone to my other hand and wave back. “Okay, well what's wrong?”

“Well, not really wrong...” she trails off with a strange giggle. “Zac, I'm pregnant.”

I come to a stop in front of the table where my brothers are sitting and for a moment, I think I might pass out. I stand completely still, phone still held up to my ear even though I can’t seem to make my voice work.

“Zac? Are you still there?”

I gulp, and try to ignore the way Taylor and Isaac are staring at me. “Yeah... yeah. That's great. Can I call you back later, though?”

“Yeah, call me when you're not busy.”

I end the call and stuff the phone back into my pocket, still standing dumbly in front of the table. Taylor raises an eyebrow and Isaac crosses his arms. I realize, perhaps too late, that they're waiting for me to explain myself. I can only imagine how I must look. “Umm... Kate's pregnant.”

Isaac's face lights up. He's loving being a father, and I know he's dying for a second baby, so it's no surprise that he's happy for me. Taylor frowns and his eyes cloud over, but he quickly forces that expression away and replaces it with a smile that's too big to be mistaken for anything genuine. 

Taylor pulls out a chair for me, but barely even looks me in the face. “That's great, Zac. You'll make a great dad.”

I wonder if he has any clue how insincere his words sound. Even more than that, I wonder if Isaac notices. I think he does, but he chooses not to remark on it. I can practically see inside of his mind, as he files that thought away somewhere where he doesn't have to think about it and can pretend it didn't happen, like so many other odd moments between Taylor and me that he's noticed over the years.

I can't even manage to pay attention to the conversation going on around me. I barely manage to order a coffee, but I can't think about eating anything. I just dive into my coffee and stay there as Taylor and Isaac talk about plans for how to promote the album and something about walking. I manage to nod and say “yes” or “no” at the appropriate moments, so I don't think they even notice that I'm off in my own world.

I don't know why this has hit me so hard. It's not like I didn't plan on someday having children, and it's not like I didn't know that was going to happen eventually. I'm not an idiot. I know how this works. Hell, I was terrified to even have sex with Kate after what happened with Taylor and Natalie. But I'm a married man now, aren't I? I shouldn't be so scared of being a father; it's kind of part of the whole job I signed up for when I gave Kate that ring.

Maybe it's Taylor's reaction that's bothering me, then. I knew why he wasn't happy about my wedding. I could understand that, eventually, even though I thought it was selfish and childish. And after he opened up, I understood why he had pulled away from me after the accident. But what I don't understand at all is why this, the news of my impending fatherhood, could possibly bother him. He knew this would happen, too. He knew that we could never be truly, 100% devoted to each other. This couldn't really be any other way. 

So why does it feel like that's what he wants from me?

Maybe I'm reading too much into how strange he's acting. Maybe he just thinks I'm too young to be a father; after all, he would know about that, wouldn't he? He would have to be pretty damn hypocritical to judge me for having a baby with my wife of over a year, though, considering how he went about the same process in reverse. 

Once we're finished with the meeting, which probably accomplished a lot more than I was paying attention to, we part ways to pack up and head on to the next city. I walk off in a daze, barely even managing to say goodbye to either Issac or Taylor. If that bothered either of them, I didn't notice that either. Once I'm back in my room, throwing clothes into my suitcase, I call Kate back to apologize for hanging up so suddenly earlier.

She accepts my apology far more readily than I had expected and it only serves to make me feel even more like shit. I've done precious little to deserve someone so devoted, so willing to accept whatever I say and do, even when both are absolutely wrong and horrible. I don't deserve such a wonderful wife. I _know_ I've taken her for granted. Wasn't that the great lesson I was supposed to learn from that alternate reality? Yet I've done nothing with that knowledge.

It doesn't take me long to finish packing, since we've only been here for a day and I only brought one of my suitcases in from the bus anyway. I just stuff the clothes into it, shove my soap and things into the inside pocket, and then slam it shut. The longest part of the process is getting the damn thing to zip. The conversation slowed me down a bit, though, so almost everyone is back on the bus by the time I make it downstairs. 

Except Taylor, of course.

He's always running late, especially when packing is involved, but I can't help thinking he's deliberately taking his time now to prove a point. Maybe-–no, definitely-–that he doesn't want to be around me. I'm still not entirely sure why, and I'm not exactly relishing the idea of trying to find out. We may have communicated better lately than ever before, but if we're angry, it's nearly impossible for us to talk. He shuts down and refuses to speak and I snap and start punching things. The two of us angry isn't a pretty sight, and I just can feel that we're getting close to that.

In the hopes of avoiding an argument, I settle into the bus couch with my xBox. I'm choosing the path of least resistance. If I'm absorbed in a game, everyone will hopefully know better than to disturb me. It doesn't always work out that way, but one can always hope.

Sometimes I'm too hopeful for my own good.

Taylor tumbles onto the bus, humming along with his iPod, but he stops short when he sees me. He looks like he's going to speak, but he doesn't. I turn back to my game and try to ignore the way that Taylor is so obviously ignoring me as he wanders around the bus. He takes his time surveying the contents of the fridge, then walks away without even taking anything from it. 

Against my better judgment, my worst judgment – all of my judgment combined – I decide to speak. I clear my throat to get his attention, even though I know I already have it, whether he would admit it or not. “Tay. You didn't congratulate me.”

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” he spits out, his eyes narrowing as he says it.

“Say it like you fucking mean it, I guess,” I reply.

He curls his lip like he's about to spit some awful reply back at me, but he doesn't. With a last shake of his head, he walks down the bus's hallway and slams the door to the back lounge. I shake my head in disbelief. I really don't know what his problem is, but I know I didn't improve it any by pressing his buttons. I always do that. I can't help it. I used to like the way I could get under his skin like that, but now it only seems to get me into trouble.

Only a few seconds later, Isaac walks onto the bus and looks around, hands on his hips. I suppose he can tell there's tension around, and the closed door to the back lounge pretty much says it all. I just offer him a shrug and turn back to my game, but of course he isn't willing to let it go that easily.

“Fighting again?”

I give up and pause the game. “It would appear that way.”

“Any particular reason this time?” he asks, but only seeming half concerned. He opens the fridge and grabs a beer. It's early in the afternoon, but I can't say that I'm not tempted to do the same, if it would make the rest of this day pass a little easier.

“Fuck if I know why he's mad. He's just being Taylor, I guess. Maybe he'll get over it.”

“Maybe he will, maybe he won't,” Isaac says, sitting down at the table across from me. “Maybe you should just go ahead and apologize for whatever you did.”

“Why do you assume I did something?”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but you two act like an old married couple. So if he's being pissy, and his actual wife isn't around, I have to conclude that you're to blame.”

I frown. “Why am I the wife?”

“Because it worked out really well for my metaphor. You can be the husband if you want. What the fuck ever, just go apologize before you guys drag this fight out for weeks like the last one.”

“No. I didn't do anything wrong,” I reply, pouting and turning back to my game before Ike can see that I'm pouting.

I truly believe that, too, for at least a few minutes. It's not wrong of me to have sex with my wife, and of course children are bound to be the result of that. I didn't do anything wrong there. But what if staying with Taylor, what if trying to actually turn this thing into a relationship was wrong? If we can't ever truly be together the way I want us to be, maybe we shouldn't be together at all.

Maybe Taylor was right after all, as much as it pains me to admit that that has ever happened, even once. Maybe I have completely misinterpreted my coma dream, alternate reality life. Even if that is the case, I'm damn sure not apologizing to Taylor.


	24. Taking the Walk

_October 8, 2007_

Days go by and the tour goes on, moving from promotional tour to full on regular tour. It turns out that Taylor's plan, which I hadn't listened to a word of, was for us to take barefoot walks with the fans before each show. It was supposed to be raising awareness or something. To be honest, I didn't fully follow even after I had it explained to be a dozen or so times, but I knew there was no point but to just suck it up and do what Taylor wanted.

That was always sort of how things worked, anyway, whether it was to do with the band or in our private lives. Naturally, this most recent fight-–if you could even call it that-–didn't change a thing.

It was hard to characterize it as a fight, since we hadn't spoken a single word to each other, aside from business, since the day Kate called. In public, we were completely civil to each other. In private, it was as though some spark between us had just gone out, even more quickly than it had been rekindled. What should have given us more in common somehow only drove us apart and put a palpable wedge between us.

We arrive in Nashville early in the morning with just a few hours to get in a quick nap before we give Taylor's newest wild idea a test drive. I have no idea what to expect from it, but again, I know I'm just along for the ride. We check into the first half-way decent looking hotel with enough vacancies and again I long for the days when Taylor and I shared a hotel room. Then again, I'm glad those days are over, because at least now there's an actual wall between us and not just the metaphorical one he's built.

It feels like I haven't slept at all when a knock comes at my door. It's high and light, as though it's possible for a single door to have so many different knocks, and somehow I know it's Taylor. Maybe it's in the way it's just so damn insistent. Everything about Taylor lately gets under my skin, so if this is annoying, it must be him. 

I stumble out of bed, still in the jeans I wore when I fell into my bunk on the bus the night before, and swing the door open. Sure enough, it's Taylor staring back at me. He looks just as annoyed as I am, and I'm sure it wasn't his choice to be the one to wake me.

“Come on. You don't have time for a shower.”

He says it like I'm a child who can't take care of myself, and I guess that's how he sees me. It's kind of how everyone has treated me since the coma, with so much concern that I might not be okay, but with more disdain. He's reminding me that I'm too young to be a father, like I've forgotten that he was younger for two of his children's births. Fucking hypocrite.

I don't even bother speaking to him, because what's the point? Another argument? It's too early for that, even if it's practically afternoon. I grab my wallet and cell phone, smooth down my bedhead the best that I can and I'm out the door, having to practically jog to keep up with Taylor. Now he's putting physical distance between us, too.

Our hotel rooms are on the top floor of the hotel, which means we've got a long, long elevator ride down the to lobby. I suppose I could take the stairs, if I really want to avoid him. To be honest, I'm not really sure if I do want to avoid him. But he seems so hell-bent on avoiding me that I'm actually surprised he doesn't head for the stairs.

Since we're stuck in the elevator together anyway, and I don't foresee another chance to get him alone any time soon, I might as well seize the opportunity. Worse case scenario, one of us ends up strangling the other. But considering there would be no one else to blame, that's not such a bright idea. We might both be blonde, but we're not quite that dumb.

The problem is, I have no idea where to begin-–aside from being obvious and blunt, which we all know I'm quite good at. So, I simply turn my head to him as the elevator door slowly closes, and say, “What the hell is your problem, Taylor?”

“I don't have a problem,” he replies but his posture, the way he crosses his arms and huffs, gives that away as a lie.

“Yes, you sure as fuck do,” I say, feeling my anger already beginning to boil. No one can push my buttons like Taylor does, for better or for worse. “You're acting like a damn child, just because I'm going to have one. It's bullshit.”

“And you're throwing around cuss words like a child who just learned them,” he replies with a smirk.

“You're just determined for this conversation to go nowhere, aren't you?”

He shrugs. “There's nowhere for it to go. There's no problem you can solve. You're going to be a father-–good for you. A bit sudden, but whatever.”

“You're one to talk about sudden fatherhood.” I actually snort with laughter as I say that.

He stares intently at the numbers counting down. “Maybe that's how I know you're in over your head. Haven't I always known? Haven't you ever listened?”

The elevator dings loudly, announcing that we've arrived on the ground floor. Taylor takes long strides out of it, increasing the distance between us so that I can't reply, effectively ending the argument.

I blink, and realize the elevator doors are closing. I quickly squeeze my way through them, mumbling beneath my breath as I try to catch up with Taylor, “Haven't I always followed in your footsteps.”

We're shuffled onto the bus as soon as we reach the parking lot. I get there just a few seconds behind Taylor, and I don't get another chance to speak to him. The argument, if you can even call it that since our voices were barely raised, isn't finished, but at the same time, it is. Anyway, if we kept it up much longer, it would get into territory that I don't want to tread with anyone else around, and the bus is teeming with people. So I leave it be and check my email while Taylor retreats to his bunk for god knows what.

There's still no time to talk at the venue. There's equipment to be carried in, a stage to set up, a tech to send out for the guitar picks that have gone missing and a replacement for the drumstick I forgot I busted at the last show. And then we're outside in the early fall sunlight for this thing Taylor is calling a Walk. You can practically hear the capital letter when he says it, and his enthusiasm for the project would be completely infectious if I weren't so frustrated with him.

We rally together the fans that have gathered in line for the show and for this crazy Walk thing, which Taylor posted about on the website at the last possible minute, hoping to attract a few fans. There's more of them than I would expect, spilling over the sidewalks and angering the manager of the restaurant next door to the venue. Taylor doesn't seem to notice. He's in his element, pulling out a megaphone that I didn't know he owned and telling everyone to shed their shoes. We do as he says, because with Taylor, no one really ever has any other choice.

I fall to the back of the crowd, allowing the fans to swallow me up and keep me away from Taylor. Isaac is somewhere in the middle of the crowd, but I've lost him. Taylor, though, is visible even from back here. He stands head and shoulders above most of the fans, his blonde hair shining in the sun and his arms carving figures in the air as he tells some enthusiastic story to the girls surrounding him.

I want to run up and join in the hearing, even though I'm sure I've heard the story before. I've heard all his stories, except for the ones from those two months I was gone. I don't think he'll ever share those with me, and they're definitely not the kind of stories he would be telling these girls now. I imagine I can almost hear their laughter from back here, almost see the way they're falling in love with his every word and motion, and I want so badly to be a part of that.

But I can't. I stay in the back, faking a smile and nodding my head as one fan or another chatters away about how our music has changed her life.

We pause halfway through the one mile trek and no one is really quite sure why until Taylor manages to find himself a bench to stand on and pulls out his megaphone again. He looks like a giant now, and I'm just as drawn to him as any girl there, maybe even more so. I weave my way through the crowd until I'm just a few feet away, as close as any of these eager fans will let me get. 

If you ask me later, I couldn't tell you a single word he said. It's all about pretty depressing subjects-–AIDS, poverty, Africa, etc-–but there's such life and hope to the way Taylor talks about it. He's so inspired to change things, and I knew he had this drive, but there's this new fire in him that I never noticed before. It draws me to him like a moth, like it always has. How could anyone not be drawn to this man, looking a little bit crazed, barefoot on a bench, urging the crowd around him to make a difference, make something of themselves.

I don't know if I'll ever make a difference or make anything more of myself than a drummer in an almost popular band, but I know one thing. I will follow Taylor anywhere, no matter how he treats me, no matter if he even wants me there. It's just the simple fact of Taylor and me. I'll always be a few steps behind him, always wishing to be closer. No fights can change that for long, and never permanently.

The concert that night has an energy to it like none of the others so far on the tour. I don't know what's changed, but something most definitely has. Taylor still only glances back at me when he needs to, never just to share those secret little looks. But I can feel something in the air, I just don't yet know what. When the show ends, he doesn't seem so hesitant to hold my hand for the bow, but he still won't look my way. It's not perfect, but it's enough for me.

There's still not a chance to really talk to Taylor again once we're offstage, but I don't mind. Somehow, although he acts no different, I feel a change. Maybe it has nothing to do with me. Maybe he's just energized about the Walk. I don't know. Whatever it is, it soothes my nerves just enough that I think I might be able to get a decent night's sleep once we're back at the hotel. 

We all stumble into the hotel still stinking of sweat and that strange concert smell that can't really be likened to anything else in the world. We mumble our goodnights as we part on our floor, with one last reminder from Bex about how early we need to be up so the bus doesn't leave us behind. Taylor's eyes almost land on me when he speaks and it's close enough that I could jump for joy.

Since I don't actually remember my last shower, but I'm positive it happened in an entirely different city, I decide that's the first order of business, even before calling room service to order something to settle my rumbling stomach. I still don't take much time in the shower, though, since I do still have that hunger to take care of, not to mention the need for a few hours of rest. 

It probably hasn't been ten minutes since I opened the hotel room door, and I'm already out of the shower, my hair still wet, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers I hope are as clean as I am. It's tough to say, really, especially after this long on the road. Clean starts to become a relative term. I pick up my discarded towel and start absent-mindedly drying my hair while I search the room for a room service menu.

A knock at the door, less annoying but just as insistent as the one that morning, distracts me from my search. I'm not sure, but the butterflies in my stomach when I hear the sound make me think it must be Taylor. No one else could get to me on even that subconscious of a level.

I flip the lock and swing the door open, and sure enough, there's Taylor staring at me. He looks sheepish. I don't think he's ever been sheepish for a second in his life, but I can't find a single other word in the entire English language to describe the way he looks right now, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Tell me about your other world.”


	25. My Other World

_October 9, 2007_

I stand in the door dumbstruck for what feels like several minutes but is probably just a few seconds. I hope that doesn't mean my sense of time is going wrong again. A more likely reason is that I just can't believe that Taylor's there, all but apologizing to me. He may not have actually said the word _sorry_ or _apologize_ , but he rarely does. Still, I can see those very words written all over him. It's enough for me.

“Come on in, I guess,” I finally manage to say, the words barely above a whisper because I still feel like the very sight of him has knocked the breath out of me. 

He shuffles into the room behind me, just close enough that I can feel his body heat on me like a warm, comforting shadow. He hasn't been that close to me in a long time and I'm halfway tempted to stop walking, or at least slow way down, so that I can draw him even closer. But I don't, because I know how coordinated we are. We'd just end up in a pile on the floor, in the least sexy way possible.

So I don't do that. I just continue on into the room and sit awkwardly on my bed. For some reason that I can't understand, we each have two beds in our hotel rooms and for a second I'm worried that Taylor will sit on the other one. But he doesn't. He sits down on my bed, about as far from me as he could be and still be considered to be on the same bed.

“I was going to order room service, if you want anything...” I offer, trailing off just because I don't know what else to say, and it's a pretty weak attempt at being friendly anyway.

He shakes his head. “No. I'm not hungry. You know why I'm here.”

I nod. “You want to hear about my other world. But I already told you about that.”

“I want to know more,” he says, insistently, scooting closer to me to emphasize his point. “I want to know what it was like. I want to know what your life was like, when you were gone.”

I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes, trying to draw up all the memories I have of that other world. It's been like photo negatives, peeled apart and held just a few millimeters from each other. I could flash between each set of memories in an instant, or feel them both in me simultaneously, never sure which one is quite right. It takes a while to really focus in on the whole, right picture.

After a while I open my eyes and see that Taylor is closing in on me even more, ready for my story. “Okay. Well, I woke up with everything gone. A year of my life not in my memory, my wife walked out on me, and my brother...you... dead.”

“I know all of that.”

“I know, I know. I'm just setting the scene.”

He leans his head against my shoulder. “Go on. I'm listening.”

“Well... it felt like my entire life was collapsing, literally and figuratively. I came to believe that time was fractured, like it was a living thing that was happening all at once and had gotten itself in the wrong order. I still believe that somehow, the combination of my wedding, that accident, and us pulling away from each other had a profound effect on... well, everything.”

I pause to see how he's taking that sentiment, and although he stares up at me wide eyed, he doesn't say a word.

“I had this awful urge to fix things. To put things right. It's so self-centered, but I guess I always have been. Somehow, I did. I kept blacking out, like how you found me at the piano, and imagining I was back in this world. The last time it happened, the accident happened. So I got you back, but...”

“But you didn't.”

“But I didn't.”

He closes his eyes and considers that for a while, then pulls back to look at me straight on. “What was it like? What did you _feel_?”

“Like my world was ending, I told you. There was this hole in my very being. A part of me-–several parts of me-–were gone. Don't get me wrong, I missed Kate too, but she was still there. It was like a warning; I always held her at a distance, and now she was really at a distance. A distance she didn't want me to bridge. And you... you were gone, completely. I didn't feel like I could ever really be me again without you.”

Taylor's face curls up like he's in pain, physical pain. He starts to cry. “That's how I felt, you know. When you were gone.”

“But I wasn't really gone.”

“You could have been,” he insists. “That's the point. And just like in your world, where you thought you could save me... in my world, I knew I _couldn't_ save you. I just had to wait. Wait for something to maybe, someday change. And the whole time, I kept thinking it was my fault, but that didn't mean it was in my power to fix it.”

Like mirror images, I realize. Like my metaphor of photo negatives. Maybe that's why Taylor and I fit together so well. I grasp his hand, but I don't hold it. I just hold it out in the air in front of me so that I can press my palm to it, to see how they compare. They're different, but somehow the same, too. Just like us.

I have to take the metaphor further. I lean forward those few inches between us and press my lips to his. I've never paid so much attention to the detail before, never taken my time with him. In this, too, we're similar bit different. His lips are softer and thinner than mine, but they seem to fit. I guess maybe everything about our bodies is this way, and I don't want to stop until I've explored all of those possibilities and inches of flesh.

“Zac,” Taylor gasps out, pulling away from my kiss and cupping my face in his hands. “I don't want to lose you. I wish you could see how you've been slipping away from me.”

“But I'm back now.”

“Are you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “You're married. You're going to be a _father_. You don't know how much that will change us. Maybe more than it did when I had kids.”

“That's why you've been so angry.”

He shakes his head. “Not angry. Just lost. Just afraid.”

He looks like such a lost little child, and I have to pull him tight to me, still feeling all the subtle similarities and differences in the way our muscles lie, the smooth and rough spots on our skin. I hold him for a while before speaking into his hair, “You're not losing me. You don't even see it, but I follow you everywhere. You're so much a part of me, Taylor. I couldn't be away from you if I wanted, and if there's one thing the last year has taught me, it's that I don't want to be away from you for even a second.”

Taylor doesn't answer me with words. He just presses his soft lips to my neck. It tickles, but I lean into it anyway. Even if it hurt, I wouldn't shy away. That's just the truth of us. That's just the way I am, for better or for worse.

At some point in the night, we both end up naked but we don't have sex. We touch and kiss and explore each others bodies inch by inch like we've never had time for before, but we don't have sex. We just sort of exist in almost the same space. And it's beautiful. I imagine that I could go on doing just this for hours and hours, or maybe the rest of my life. But that's a foolish thought and eventually we do drift off to sleep, drunk on the way it feels to be together.

I don't know what tomorrow holds. I don't know if we're going to stay together like we've promised or not. But I don't think that's the point anymore. I've come to realize that the point of me and Taylor is the wanting. It's the constant struggle, both mine and his, to be closer to each other. We can never get enough, not even when we're together. It's just a struggle. And there's a kind of beauty in that, a beauty that I've never seen before. 

In the end, we know that we can't _be together_ in the way that anyone else is together, and maybe that's why it's such a bittersweet, longing thing. Whatever it is, whatever this thing is, it's our thing. As long as its ours, it's enough. His front pressed against my back as I sleep is enough reassurance for me that we're two parts of the same picture. Without each other, we're incomplete. And that's all the comfort I need to know that, though we may stray, we will always strive to be back together eventually.


End file.
